Monochrome
by Tonzura123
Summary: Stranded and hunted in the deep of the Western Wood, Edmund struggles to fill the mantle Aslan has Gifted him: protecting his family at all costs. Year 1000, PE-verse. Rated for violence and death. Cover art by the amazing OlaTungee.
1. black: Heartsick Bedside

**Monochrome**

**Chapter One: Heartsick Bedside**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: If it's an Animal, it's likely mine. Which means the humans aren't.**

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_"Likewise, the Spirit also helps us in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered," Romans 8:26

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**There was once an ancient oak that was crafted into a legend.**

**It was not the first of its kind- Neither a tree of Knowledge nor of Life. Not of Apple or Fir. It did not mark a beginning and it held no power to bring an end. But because the story-teller had captured such wonderful images in the common wood, there was not a soul in all of Narnia that did not hear it.**

**The tale of the oak was a rare path that filled the middle places.**

**The tale that led to Salvation.**

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**Narnia, Year 1000**

TWANG-_PING!_

"Adjust your stance, King Edmund."

TWANG-_THWACK!_

"And your aim- My Liege. You're still aiming too low. Remember when you commanded the archers! Recall how they held themselves as you fired on the Witch!"

TWANG-_SHICK!_

"That was too high."

"At least I grazed it that time!" I muttered beneath heated breath, but my frustration was born of lacking skills with the bow and lacking strength in my scrawny arms. Oreius' orders only added to my ire.

The morning training grounds were rhythmically resounding with the clang of metal on shield and clip-clopping hoof steps on polished stone. A little ways from the archery range, the rest of my guard practiced swordplay and fang-marking beneath the red falling leaves of the laughing Sycamores. I wanted to join them, isolated on the barren target range, but General Oreius was as wise a Centaur as he was an ornery one, and he had decided I should learn the benefits of the long-range bow. There was nothing short of Aslan could change his mind and rescue me from inevitable failure.

I suppose he had forgotten the fact that I did not share the same stature as Peter. When my brother had been handed his first longbow and quiver of practice heads, it had taken only two demonstrations from the General for the High King to perfectly mimic the procession of movements.

_Leather creaked about coiling muscle- the older boy's arms bulged, rippling and fluid. In one shift both exhilarating and daunting, the arrow was nestled by the concentrating frown of his mouth. A second of breathless anticipation, and the tightened muscles gave like a floodgate bursting, their strength releasing, aiming the arrow straight into the pinprick eye of the straw target. The arrow quivered where it struck, but Peter was already taking aim a second time..._

"Remember, my King, you can always use a smaller bow if it is too much for you to-"

TWANG-

With a messy jerk on the bowstring and an even messier release, the arrow flew off to the side, completely missing the target. A startled yelp caught our ears and stopped my heart cold in my chest.

"Hold your fire, Your Majesty!" One of my guard, a Faun archer named Foible, came out from behind the target with both hands raised in a gesture of peace. The stray arrow was gripped in his left hand, clumps of dirt and grass still hanging off of the practice-head, "You nearly shot my leg!"

An unpleasant heat flared up my neck and face and my mouth sealed shut.

"You should know better than to be standing behind targets," Oreius replied coolly, in my defense. His leather armour creaked as he shifted his legs, one hoof pawing up the Narnian soil beneath.

"You're right, General," Foible saluted, but the tone of his squeaking voice easily retorted, 'I should have been standing in front of it...' and the heat spilled from my face and neck to my back and hands. I imagine I must have looked rather foolish.

"And how is His majesty faring in his lesson today?" the Faun teased, but I shared none of his mirth. I should have thought it fairly obvious how his majesty was faring.

Enough was enough, I rested my bow on the ground and leaned all my weight on it, releasing the taut string from the top notch.

"We're not finished yet, My King," the Centaur said, "We can still improve your draw of the bow."

My hands hesitated and my throat grew tight, but I shook my head and held out the stripped weapon to my General. Meeting his dark, questioning eyes with my own, I willed him to understand my reasoning.

"It is enough. I won't be getting any better today."

Oreius ignored the bow I held out to him, his hard gaze drilling into mine, "At least an hour more, Edmund. The sunlight and morning air of Narnia can improve many things. It will come with time."

What will come? When? Time was exactly what I lacked. I opted not to answer him, feeling the yew of the bow bounce against my breeches as I turned to Foible, "What word of my sister?"

The humor fled his mouth, along with any dim spot of hope left in my heart. _Where is Peter?_

"The same, King Edmund. Queen Susan and Saleni are with her now. She insists she cannot sleep."

"I will join her. General," I nodded my head at him and without another word, dropped the bow where I stood in the dewy grass, stepping around Oreius' flank. I did not miss the irritated swish of his dark tail nor the uncomfortable shift in his hindquarters as I did so. But the General did not prevent me from leaving the range, so I stepped past both soldiers as I ascended the garden path up to the Cair, the wind whipping my clothes as I dragged myself forwards.

It should have been a magnificently beautiful day. Any other day, I would have welcomed the cool air strongly stirring around me, the warm sun cradling my face, the smell of sap and earth and something else unidentifiably sweet inhaled with each breath. The smoke from the kitchens breathed onto the misty blue of the sky, scented with cinnamon and apples. Squirrels and Birds chattered in the trees. Any other day, and this all would not have seemed filling and peaceful. Promising. But nothing about this breathtaking day could correct the wrong growing in Narnia's people.

A distant bell chimed from the lower town, instantly smothered by a crashing whisper of agony. If I had been closer, I might have been able to make out the individual cries of the mourning family, the wailing silence of the people as one more Narnian was lost.

Three days without word.

I did not know what could have been taking Peter so long. Narnia was by no means a small country, but it should have been small enough for Peter to tear across it and back by now. It was possible that other parts of Narnia were hindered by bad weather. It could be that they were restocking provisions. It could be that some of the Fell had to be dealt with along the way. There were a number of reasons. But none could excuse the fact that our eldest sibling had yet to send a messenger regarding his progress.

Peter knew what he was doing. He had led our soldiers right so far- it was unlikely that he had encountered opposition, even if the rumours were true and there were Fell remnants sulking in the West. All I had to do was keep the Cair together until he came back, like he had made me promise.

_His servants were silent with reverence as they handed him different pieces of armour to strap to his body. Two Fauns worked on finishing his leather cuirass, strapping tight the buckles on the side, but he waved away the help for his leather arm braces, and they respectfully bowed, their eyes still glowing with wonder at their golden High King. All of the courtiers and servants looked at Peter like that- Ever since the day he'd been crowned High King._

_It was when the second Faun brought forth Peter's silver helmet perched atop a delicate grip that I realized I should speak._

_"Peter?"_

_He took the helmet and tucked it underneath his arm as he turned to the door where I stood. From his side it stared facelessly up at me, as fearsome as it was foreign. His mouth turned up while the Fauns worked back over his spaulders. They fidgeted with the laces as though they were fussy mothers tying his shoes, and he, a bemused son._

_"Not lost? Didn't go wandering off?"_

_I blushed. In all truthfulness, I had gotten lost on the way: Peter had never summoned me to his rooms before. I hadn't even known they were half as grand as they were, with gold inlaid into every detail. Bed, blankets, carpet, stonework- even the fireplace, it would seem. Though, now that I think of it, I could have bothered to ask anyone for directions and they would have known the quickest route._

_"A little."_

_"I wanted to talk with you," he looked to the Fauns again, shooing them away with ridiculously natural ease, "My thanks Sparcas, Grothem. Leave us, please."_

_"Sire," they said to him, "King Edmund," they addressed me. They clopped out the door, shutting it enough so that a line of air could breathe through. The guards were posted immediately outside the entryway, should the High King have need of them._

_For a long moment, the two of us merely stood there, staring at each other. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what to say to him, or if he was having the same problem as I was. For his part, Peter looked very well contained. In the midst of it all, he seemed to glow, standing tall, straight-backed and confident where I was short, slouching, and restraining my body from jittering with worry. While we both faced each other, he simply looked at me, like he could see through me- or worse, inside of me- never speaking or making any such notion that he intended to._

_Then he shifted and the helmet's glare was trained firmly on my face, "There's no way of knowing how long I'll be gone for..."_

_I nodded dumbly, crossing my arms as if in contemplation._

_He exhaled, golden eyebrows drawing together, "Susan volunteered to take up my position in court while I'm away, and Oreius is handling the army. Tumnus is already doing everything Lucy would normally do. Between the three of them, there shouldn't be too much left for you to take care of, so you can still take classes with your tutors and train in the yard with the soldiers when you need to."_

_He paused, and I wondered if he could see the temper that was raging so frighteningly inside of me. Taking refuge in the quiet voice that cut through my mind, I breathed outwards, curling my fingers inwards so that the nails taunted the blistering skin there._

_"Can't-" He looked up at me sharply and my words froze. I scowled and looked away, "Can't I help?"_

_"I need you to do something for me."_

_Suddenly it didn't matter that the empty visor was still boring into my skull, because Peter's blue eyes were locked with mine too and I couldn't find the will to look away. It was just like that moment, the last time he had looked at me so fiercely and I could not think ill of him, or entertain the idea that he thought ill of me. It was... Well, I don't know if I could describe to you._

_"Take care of the girls, Edmund."_

_A serious task, then. My chest became tight and I frowned, utterly somber._

_"I will, Peter."_

_"Good man," said Peter, and he smiled just before his face was covered with a silver mask. I bowed as the High King passed me by._

"Edmund!"

I jumped, tripping and almost running into Susan, who had been coming down the path from the opposite direction. In my frantic haste and demented concentration, I hadn't noticed my older sister nearing. She closed the distance, warm brown dress billowing in the shaded terrace. The bells in the towns chimed to cover the irrepressible mourners, if only for the moment, and I found my thoughts gathering.

"'Lo, Susan."

"I thought you were training," she reproached, touching my arm in greeting, "You should have stayed out a while longer- I think the sunlight is doing you good. A freckle or two may have finally showed up-" She tapped the tip of my nose with a smooth finger, making it wrinkle reflexively.

"I had to see Lucy."

She smiled, but it was sympathetic, and I instantly looked away from her, "Saleni checked in on her?"

"Yes. The cough was keeping her awake. And even if she does sleep..." my sister gestured helplessly, "Her dreams are filled with nightmares."

"Is the fever doing that?"

"Oh, Edmund, I don't know."

"What does Saleni say?"

"He doesn't know either."

"Well of all people, he should know something!" I snapped, "He's a doctor, isn't he? He should be able to help her!"

"Edmund, he's doing all he can." And there was such a weary plea in that promise, that I immediately shut my mouth and turned away again, ashamed of how spoiled and childish I sounded. Would I never grow up? I had no right to behave that way around my sister; Susan was just as frustrated as I was.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Susan asked softly. Gentle suited my sister.

I shook my head. While I couldn't discover miracles, I'd read from the scrolls and tomes in the Cair's royal library that Kings of old would fast in times of trouble- It was a form of sacrifice, and Aslan condoned it. It was such that I required no further prompting, and no amount of coaxing could persuade me to cease my bid for Lucy's health.

"Will you?" she continued, already knowing the answer.

"Not until Lucy is well." Not until Peter returned with the cure in hand.

Susan bit her lip harshly and for one horrible moment, I thought I had said the one thing that would make her cry. It seemed that in those days Susan was bound to explode into tears at any given moment. Instinct told me run before I was caught, a stern voice roared up in my heart to anchor my feet in place, but Susan only worried her lip this time and blinked her blue eyes a few times in rapid succession. The tears dried before they fell. The instinct dimmed a little. The voice hummed, almost purring in its pleasure.

"I'll let you two talk alone," she warbled, "She's been asking for you, you know."

It was my turn to blink, and I think the inside of my cheek was bleeding from where I'd sank my teeth into it. Susan rested her hands on my shoulders and leaned down a little ways to kiss me on the cheek. It was soft and gentle and beautiful in its unfamiliarity.

"You're a wonderful brother, Edmund," my sister told me, "We're lucky to have you."

**OooOooOooOooO**

The atmosphere of Lucy's quarters was nothing like the training yard.

A wave of sickly heat- damp, sour warmth- hit me the moment the sentries opened the doubled doors. The fireplace was lit on the far wall, but the fire was low and the light was dim. Heavy shades were drawn over the windows to prevent the brilliancy of the rising sun from piercing the glass. Small candles were lit sparsely throughout the space, the largest posted at the bedside table, lending just enough light to read the enormous book that was propped up there. A medicine book, I presumed. And beside it, a bowl of cooled rose-water.

Tumnus, our family's advisor and Lucy's best friend, stood beside the bed as well; his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed down at the figure bundled on the bed. Lucy's illness had hit him spectacularly hard, nearly as hard as the rest of us. He had done everything in his power to help, and I knew that he, like Peter, would not rest until she was on the mend.

Upon my entrance, he looked up and caught the look in my eye. Ever polite, the Faun dipped his head respectfully, leaning over the bed to whisper something, before straightening and swiftly exiting, a sad look shooting at me in parting. I looked away.

"Good morning, Doctor," I said, once Tumnus had vanished down the corridor.

Doctor Orphidus Maxtonias Saleni was a generally genius physician who had recently been taken into our palace staff. After the defeat of the White Witch, the Animals of a village far to the south of our Kingdom highly recommended him to be the royal family's physician. Our initial impression of his eccentricities had left something to be had, but during his trial period he had cured Susan was a vicious cold, managed to give Lucy three stitches after she'd fallen out of a Tree without drawing a single tear, and discovered Peter was deathly allergic to all things asparagus, saving his life accordingly.

Therefore, Dr. Saleni and I were in good confidences.

"Ah! Is mine Liegely!" the flamboyantly coloured Salamander skittered out from the inside of a large black medical bag, several vials clutched under his tiny arms, "Yous be checkins in on the Queenie?"

"Yes," I glanced at the small mound burrowed under the heavy coverlet, "Is she asleep?"

"She's awake," came a rasping voice, and Saleni made a tsking noise as I hurriedly drew a chair up beside my sister. She looked worse every time I saw her- sallow skin, fever bright eyes making them look like glass or marble, hair damp with sweat and natural oils, her lips grey, her nail beds white, dark circles encroaching on her smiling eyes. It was trying to kill her.

"Shes be having lots of baddies dreams! I's been giving her meds."

"I'm still having 'baddies' dreams," Lucy murmured, all good humour, "But I'm glad you're here Edmund."

"Peter should be back soon," I said, taking her small hand in mine. It was boiling and my palms instantly began to sweat just holding onto it.

She smiled, eyes closed, "He's...only been gone a few days."

"You know how Peter is," I answered, forcing a grin, "He won't come home until he does. And he's good at getting answers. He'll find it."

"I only wish I knew what happened to the Cordial," Lucy whispered. She sighed uncomfortably and turned her head towards me, cracking open her eyes, "Do you think I just misplaced it? Is it my fault we can't help the poor Narnians in the lower towns?"

"Nothing's your fault, Lucy," I said, a little more forcefully than I intended, "The cordial was stolen. You don't lose things- But we will get it back."

Lucy made a small noise in the back of her sore throat that could have represented agreement, or at least concession, but soon fell silent again, her light and heavy eyes searching the canopy above her bed. It was a dangerous silence to me; I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to tell her everything that I knew, everything I thought, everything I considered wonderful about her. During this time in my life, Lucy was my closest (and, I believed, only) friend. What my betrayal had done to my relationship with Susan and Peter had failed to damage with my little sister. I felt honoured that she so openly adored me, as she adored Susan and Peter and any other Narnian. Her love for me was cherished.

I would have done anything to protect it.

"Mine Leigely," Saleni hissed at me, as he scrambled up my pant leg and perched on my knee, "Yous be not sleepins so well- Thems are baggies under your eyeballs."

This roused Lucy a little.

"Oh, Ed."

"I am resting- I do rest," I insisted, as Saleni clicked and tsked and poked at the dark circles beneath my eyes with a clammy Salamander finger, "I just have- some things to do."

The Salamander dropped off my knee and skittered under my chair to climb back up the side of the night table, diving headlong into a dark medical bag of ominously clanking objects, his mutters drawing a bemused twitch at the side of my mouth.

"You're not worried, are you?" my little sister wondered, giving my hand a frail squeeze, "Aslan will take care of it."

Cool glass was pressed against the back of my hand before I could reply and Dr. Saleni blinked up at me with squinted eyes.

"Is meds for you, Mine Leigely. Helps you sleepies. One sip once yous snuggy in bed." He winked obviously at me. We had already discussed how much to take of it on an empty stomach.

I looked to Lucy, who opened her eyes to smile up at me, her tiny hand squeezing my own once more. It was an odd feeling- my hands had never felt strong, just scrawny and weak like the rest of me. Susan's hands were more capable than mine. Peter's completely dwarfed mine. But in holding Lucy's delicate little fingers, they felt positively brutish.

"I came here to take care of you, not the other way around."

"It makes me feel better to help people," she murmured, letting out a stifled sigh and settling back into downy pillows, "It makes me feel useful."

Well, who was I to refuse her that? I accepted the medicine from Saleni and slipped it into the small bag at my belt, drawing the leather laces with a sharp jerk on the frayed ends. Tonight would bring rest that tomorrow would heavily tax upon.

"Try to sleep, all right, Lu?"

Her colourless lips ticked upwards, "Haven't called me that since we were babies."

"I can call you Lu from now on, if you like." Because I would have done anything for her at that moment. I was doing everthing I possibly could.

"And holding hands, too," her voice was hushed, buried in slumber, "You've never held my hand before..."

I looked to Saleni, who shook his head. The fever was taking hold again. She was losing her lucidity. As the heat in her cheeks flushed outwards to fill her jawline and forehead, drenching her body as it sweated to qualm imaginary flames, and she kicked out at the covers. Despite her agitation, the heavy blankets remained in place, and she moaned aloud as her weakness was made apparent.

"You're all right, Lu. It's okay." But before long Lucy was wrapped in heated visions, her eyes turning beneath and beyond her eyelids as she chased figures and shadows unseen by this world. Hunted by nightmares, my valiant sister still fought where she lay pinned, gnashing her teeth against agony and growling at fate.

"I'm not afraid..." she rasped, fingers scrambling for purchase on my own, "I'm not afraid, Edmund. I'm not-"

"-You don't have to be," I murmured, praying with all my might as her hand was folded within my own, "I'll protect you, little sister. You don't have to be."

Beyond the sweltering and sticky room, the sun had slipped away from the Eastern Sea, steadily gaining the climax of the sky just as it would gain the West and soon be swallowed into night. Only then would I leave her. And when the sun returned to her room, it would bring me with it.

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A/N**

**All right, so this illness going through the kingdom will be explained soon.**

**There isn't much of Peter in this first chapter, but he and Ed will get back together very soon. I can hardly wait to start dropping this plot on you all- I've forgotten how difficult it is to write a first chapter...**

**Thanks to all who read this first chapter of Monochrome! If ANYONE sees any grammmar, spelling, or punctuation mistakes, please contact me so that I can fix them.**

**As Always**

**-Tonzura123**


	2. black: Harried Hawk

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Two: Harried Hawk  
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**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: The Pevensies are way out of my league. **

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_"I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope He has given to those He called—His holy people who are His rich and glorious inheritance," Ephesians 1: 18_

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**In those days, great men walked the earth. it was necessary- for a terrible evil roamed in the shadows between them, whose name spelled Death. Men and Death struggled day in and day out, for Death and his forces had taken the countryside and were fast approaching the palace of the King. Many died protecting that white-stoned fortress, but Death was sly and could slip through the smallest hole in the strongest walls. Now, it happened that one day, Death found such a hole and appeared in the bedroom of the Queen.**

**When the Queen turned from her window and saw Death, she became fearful, and tears came to her eyes, since she knew she would die. But Death, who had intended to take her then and there, felt swayed by her great beauty and offered her a deal.**

**"Noble Queen: bow to me, and renounce your husband," said Death, "For in a time, I shall kill him and take his heart from his chest to my country on a pike. Better that you never live to see those days, than to suffer for years before I return for you."**

**But the Queen was a wise and clever woman, well known for her counsel, and replied, "Sir Death, if you will give me a fortnight to prepare, I will gladly go with you. But first, I must pack and collect my servants and tell my husband that I am going to see my sister. On the tenth night, call off your attack on the palace, that my knights will relax and I may slip through one of the secret doors and join you in no-mans-land."**

**Placated, Death agreed, and went on his way.**  
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**Narnia, Year 1000**

_Peter:_

_ You need to come home as soon as you can. I don't know how far you are in the search, but I think Lucy has taken a turn for the worst. We've tried everything and Saleni is with her at all hours, but he tells me that she is slowly falling in the final stage of the sickness. _

_Edmund doesn't know what's happening, or the things she said. In truth, I'm scared to tell him. __Peter, he needs you at home with us. We all need you home with us. It was terrifying, Peter: Out of nowhere, she was sitting up and speaking nonsense at the top of her voice. I thought she might have woken up and I simply wasn't hearing her correctly, but her eyes were closed and the longer it went on the worse she became. None of it made sense! _

_Saleni says that the fever has begun to take over her mind. I don't know how much time we have anymore. But if you can start home now, you may have time to see her. Where ever you are, I pray that this message will find you and bring you back to us on Eagle wings. _

_Aslan's blessing be upon you._

_Love,_

_-SUSAN_

**OooOooOooOooO**

**Narnia, Year 1000**

The message came at noon, on the leg of a rather harried Hawk that had narrowly avoided taking off Oreius' head on her low glide down from above the Tree line. Chattering weary nonsense after the long flight, she had been taken up on the edge of Oreius' rough callouses and galloped swiftly to the Throne Room, scattering soldier and politicians alike in his wake. He did not halt until stood before the dias.

"Bernice!" Susan exclaimed, standing so quickly that she upset the pile of documents stacked beside her and spilled the ink well over the marble floor. Her long hair was braided loosely over her shoulder, a ruby shawl draped over the soft, pale skin of her inner elbows to ward agaisnt the creeping chill in the Hall. "What news from Peter?"

With little more than a sleepy squawk, the poor Bird extended her parcled leg, maintaining the stance while the young Queen ran from her seat to carefully unwind the scarlet ribbon. Devoid of the even the slightest of weights, Bernice the Hawk noticeably wobbled on her perch.

"Oreius," Queen Susan the Gentle addressed him, "Please see to it that Bernice is given a place to rest and plenty to eat and drink. She cannot have made an easy journey."

The Centaur bowed, "From what she managed to say earlier, your Majesty, she has flown all the way from the Northern face of Mount Pire without stop."

"_Mount Pire-?"_

Overcome with affection and a love for her beloved servant, Susan stepped again to the Hawk and gently rubbed the underside of her vicious beak, dropping a royal kiss to the top of her feathered head.

"Whatever her heart desires, see that it is given to her," she commanded, watching only long enough for Orieus to pass poor Bernice off to a young Faun for safekeeping. The other Narnians present seemed to sense that she wished to read the missive in private, and respectively bowed in parting. As soon as the doors to hall closed and the Queen and General were alone in the vast room, the Queen devolved into an impatient girl. She tore the ribbon from the parchment and unrolled the letter, an iron in her posture as if spreading a map for a battlefield.

For a time, the only sound in all the Hall was the scuffling of paper.

Then, finally, of rich fabrics collapsing into a cushioned seat. The letter fell, unnoticed, to the floor.

"Your Majesty?" Oreius came foward as soon as Susan dropped back into her throne, an elegant hand covering her eyes from the brilliance of the room, "What of King Peter?"

"I should not have told him, Orieus," she intoned, hand slipping from her eyes to shield her lips. Her eyes sought out a corner and fixed there, gazing into shadow. "I shouldn't have told him _anything_. Nothing will change his mind now..."

"Queen Susan," he stepped up until he stood beside her and laid a large browned hand over her slight shoulder, starting when she blindly grasped at it, "What has happened?"

She took a long moment to control whatever was clamouring to spill from her mouth, but once she had settled and her jaw had set, she released the General's hand and laid the palm from her chin onto her lap. Both hands clasped hold of each other like a pair of sisters reunited. The left hand shared with the right the tears it had captured on a Queen's cheek. The right hand shared with the left the warmth it had ensnared from a friend's gentleness. The result was a lonely comfort to their owner.

"Peter has reached Mount Pire, climbing just short of the border between Narnia and Archenland. He says that they have already swept through Glasswater and around the southern edge of the Shuddering Wood. He doesn't know where else to look. We've already climbed all over the North when the Witch was chasing us around. And we haven't had any reports from the eastern border. Peter's running out of supplies. Peter doesn't know what else to do... And..."

Orieus allowed her breathless gasp at the calm air of the Throne Room. He permitted her alleviation of the chaos and the hot, tearful disorder that surely boiled just under her skin.

"Oreius- I told him!" she cried, "I told him about Lucy and he wants to come home to see her!"

The General's dark eyes bore into her own, "Without the cure?"

"Is it wrong that I feel relieved instead of upset?" Susan demanded tearfully, "Am I a terrible sister that I feel better knowing my brother is coming home- _Regardless _of the cure?"

"You are still a child," Orieus spoke softly, "No one expects you to carry this country by your will alone."

He knelt (no simple feat for a Centaur) and took up her lonely hands in his, encompassing them so completely, that Susan had no means to argue her maturity: Her hands were the delicate instruments of a child. Unblemished and pale against the rough, leathery hold of her mentor.

"Queen Susan, it is natural to want protection against the evils of this world. Someone to confide in when there is no one who will spare you a kind glance. For you, it is your older brother- The High King of Narnia. You love your sister. I have no doubt of it. But you cannot do everything by yourself."

"I should be- I should be able to. I should be perfectly capable of running the Cair without Peter to help me. I should be able to hold everything together when he can't so that he doesn't have to bend over backwards to get things done! He's been searching all of Narnia by himself! I should be able to do this-! To take care of-!"

"Queen Susan?"

Both girl and Centaur jumped at the third voice that had entered the room.

Frowning, the dark figure of the Faun archer, Foible, made his way down the center of the hall, resting just at the foot of the dias.

"What's the matter? What's happened?" It felt as though everyone was subject to a fatalistic vein that afternoon.

His dark eyes landed on the discarded scroll. Orieus watched as his right hand made a strange, strangled movement, reminding him strongly of a hungry Wolf tensing forward on coiled haunches.

"His Majesty finally wrote back," he said breathlessly, quickly searching their faces for answers, "But whatever is the matter, my good Queen? Surely this is good news you've been brought?"

Susan quickly rubbed at the tears running silently down her cheeks, her jaw trembling with effort as she smiled blandly at the soldier.

"He is coming home. Back to the Cair."

"With the cure in hand?" Foible pressed insistently, "Or does he return for mortal means?"

"His Majesty is completely hale," Oreius intervened on the Queen's behalf, for she still could not seem to speak for emotion. "Rest assured, her Majesty will divulge all she wishes to share with Narnia when she is ready." A discrete stomp of his hoof would have discouraged a more aware being, but Foible was not known for his wit. Everyone knew he was a little slower than the rest.

"The Narnians grow weary," the Faun warned, "Do not hold off too long, your Majesty. It is best for everyone that we receive some good news."

But before either could reply, the Faun had slipped back through the doors and into the castle, causing Susan to slump tiredly over her knees. With both hands, she rubbed at her forehead.

"I must... Tell Doctor Saleni," she announced finally, and Orieus nodded beyond her sight.

"And what of King Edmund?"

Susan looked up with startled eyes, "Edmund?"

"Your second brother?" Orieus reminded her, thick brow twisting with a soft tease.

As she bit her lip, he continued in a far more serious tone, "I confess that I worry for the state of his condition, Queen Susan. You should not put off in telling him. He has fasted these past few days in his brother's absence- If he will not eat now, he may become too weak to continue holding off the sickness. I would not think that any of your Majesties would welcome such a thing."

Her crystalline eyes grew hard, "I will stuff food down his throat _myself _before I'll let that happen!"

Child she may have been, but Orieus harboured no doubt that she was fully capable.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Sorry for the formatting trouble in the first section- that should all be cleared up now.  
**

**I've made an executive decision and cut out the English storyline. Trust me, when I say that this would be FAR too much to keep up with if it had stayed. And the plot is thick enough without...**

**Or, at least, it WILL be, once things start rolling.  
**

**Hope your spring breaks are going well! Mine was certainly productive...**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123  
**

**New Vocab:**

**blandishment- flattering speech or action**

**wunderkind- a person that achieves great success while very young**

**incipient- beginning to exist or appear**


	3. black: The Uninvited Guests

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Three: The Uninvited Guests**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I've never been to England, but I've heard the real author has frequented the country...**

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_"Hear, O Lord, my righteous plea; listen to my cry. Give ear to my prayer- it does not rise from deceitful lips," Psalm 17:1_

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**Later that night, the Queen went to her husband and told him all that transpired with Death. The King was greatly troubled, but praised his wife for her loyalty.**

**"Yet, for all the wonder that you stir in my heart, Death will come for you in a fortnight, and I will surely die. For either he pierces my heart with his sword when I stand betwixt you, or he shall overpower me and take you with him, which is the worst injury that Death can render me."**

**But the Queen stroked his cheek and comforted him with these words, "Fear not, my husband, for I have spoken with He That Rules Our Hearts, and He has whispered in my ear. There is a cure for our dear Sir Death."**  
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**Narnia, Year 1000: Four days after the High King's departure**

The gardens were the ideal place to escape.

Usually there would be Moles, and Badgers, and all other sorts of burrowers tending to the sweet herbs and crisp-leaved Trees, weeding out suffocating creepers and tearing down obscuring kudzu. Dryads would laugh in the midst of their labor in the boughs of the Plums and Cherries, their woven hand baskets overflowing with fruits of every color. Birds would chatter about the winds and the fineness of the day. And absolutely _nothing _would be mentioned about the lower towns. Such a subject was avoided throughout the Cair. Though the thought was still rooted in our minds, its leaves and smelly bud had been ripped out by eager paws.

Especially after the Master Gardner's sons had taken ill, roughly two weeks before Lucy. Understanding his terrible predicament, Peter and Susan had given him leave to look after them, pushing placebos on him as he went. A day later, we received a message requesting permanent leave- his cubs had passed away in the night. Lucy would have been distraught to have found out the fate of her playmates.

Without the gardener, the gardens were all but abandoned, weeds binding to ground and wall and plant. They entwined with the roots of the celandine and choked them grey. They spilled over walkways and upturned the intricate stone path that led down from the Cair. Birds refused to settle in the hairy creepers. Barely a soul entered, unless they'd been yoked with some unavoidable task. No one trespassed on the neglected soil.

No one, save for me.

I sat with my back pressed into the lower trunk of a Neem tree, a light wooden board resting against knees like a portable desk. The charcoal pencil- borrowed from one of the Cair's master architects- hesitated over the page, and I brought the wood between my teeth to nibble at.

_Eergglegrel...!_

My stomach gurgled impatiently and saliva rushed into my mouth.

"Even _Beavers _don't eat the wood of their trade," I said, though I continued to chew on the end of the pencil in thought, "Don't be ridiculous."

Again, my body clambered for my attention, determined to have me give it _something_ with which to operate upon, but I ignored it and turned back to my letter.

I had woken up that day with a dull headache thrumming through my skull and down my neck, coupled with a violent urge to track down my apparently _illiterate _brother and urge him to contact us. Luckily, Doctor Saleni had found me before I had become too murderous, and pressed yet another vial of medicine upon me, which I had immediately swallowed down. With nothing else in my stomach, it was not long before the drums in my head had stilled to a gentle throb.

Peter, however, was still a problem that I sought to correct.

Four days without word. That was the reason I was in the middle of directing a letter for him, trying to minimize the amount of information I longed to enclose. It could not, after all, be an extensive letter. Carriers were typically smaller creatures, and they could not travel the distance Peter had surely crossed by now with a letter as long as they were tall attached to them.

'_Keep it simple, Pevensie...'_

But keeping the facts condensed wasn't my only issue.

_Peter-_

_I'm writing you now because we haven't heard word from you in days._

_Lucy isn't getting any better, but Saleni is doing all he can to make her comfortable._

_Our emergency census shows that 123 Narnians have passed away from this illness since the start of our reign__._

_Have you found it, yet?_

_Why haven't you written us by now? Haven't you gotten Susan's letters?_

It was also a complex mixture of not wanting to worry Peter any more than I already knew he was, and wanting him to worry _more _so that he'd move _faster_; I wanted him to either to find the cure or to hurry home. It was an ugly balance I sought for, and I wasn't under any delusion that I might eventually find it. If I _were _to worry him and he were to rush to the Cair to be with Lucy, then the search for the cure would be abandoned and the rest of Narnia would suffer. If he continued to search, then he might not lay eyes on her again before she-

-I crushed the paper in my fist and lobbed it as hard as I could across the gardens.

With a hot anger that was both familiar and undesirable, my mouth attempted to form a violent curse agaisnt my brother. Yet it couldn't come: staunched by the sharp iron of my being. I had bitten down on my tongue hard enough to draw blood.

Peter was _not _to be the subject of my blame this time! This time, there was only a nameless disease; a mysterious ailment that was striking the Creatures and Beasts of Narnia dead within mere days.

Lucy, Aslan guard her, had withstood the disease for a full week so far. She still seemed to be in the earlier stages of the sickness. More than anything, I would guess that Peter was counting on the difference of her form from that of our People's to give her the strength to resist. At least until he returned.

"But when will _that _be?"

Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Peter would have contacted us if he had _any_ word on finding the cure. I had a distinct feeling that such a message would have ordered that Lucy be sitting up upon his arrival so that she could swallow whatever concoction or magical radish he had dug up for her. No word could only mean that he had no reliable leads and he was too focused on the hunt to inform us.

But he would find it. Whatever it was, Peter was exactly the right person to find it.

The wooden board and papers fell off of my legs as I drew my knees closer towards me and rested my forehead on them, the bark of the Neem tree hushing me as the fabric of my tunic drew across it. My thoughts were desultory, scattering at the slightest shift of events. I felt strange, like if I had edges, they would be crumbly. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the Eastern Sea over the whistling stone walls. I wondered if the Eastern Sea could hear me as well.

_'Aslan... If you can hear this- please help Peter. Send him back to us soon. Protect him. Protect Lucy.' _

I paused, thinking back on the night before. My older sister was amazingly resilient, despite everything that was happening. I had come to depend on her clear-headedness as surely as I had come to depend on Saleni's potions.

_'And help Susan keep herself together, as well. She has a lot on her plate right now.'_

More than a lot. The Beasts and Creatures of Narnia were steadily receding into a dull sort of aggrieved panic. Some of them had even formed bands of their own and were spreading out across the country, each pack searching for a different miracle. The children of Narnia sick today. The future of Narnia nonexistent tomorrow. Danger was everywhere, creeping into the hearts of every family and spurning courage in a bitter betrayal. Something large and painful yawned upwards in my chest, prompting me to continue;

"You told me I was their Protector and that You would tell me what to do." My voice came out harsh and deep and I assured Him, "I'm listening, Aslan."

"_Pssst!"_

My eyes startled open and I shot to my feet, heart beating wildly, "Hello?"

The "_Pssst!" _insisted from above my head, and I craned backwards to stare.

There, sitting on a low branch, was a Robin. He puffed his merry scarlet chest and shuffled his handsome wings in obvious embarrassment. His claws left tiny scratches in the skin of the Neem.

"I'm sorry to have frightened you, your Majesty."

"No it's..." I put a hand over the frantic charge of my heartbeat and pulled in more air, "I'm fine."

"Your Majesty was speaking with Aslan," the Robin chirruped, "I didn't want to interrupt, but I am sorry for eavesdropping."

My face suddenly felt a little warmer in the chill of the morning air.

"Oh, no!" the little Robin cried, and hopped from his perch to flutter onto the ground at my feet, spreading his wings in supplication, "No! Don't be upset, my King! I thought everything you said was very kind. You're so very changed from the last time."

Something about the way he emphasized "last time" jerked my temperature in the opposite direction with brutal haste, and goosebumps swelled on my arms as my head went light. For a moment, the world turned an ashy grey, electric and magnetizing, pulling me sideways until I held out a hand to steady myself agaisnt the trunk of the hardy Neem.

"The last time?"

"Don't you remember me, King Edmund?" the little Bird warbled, hopping a foot closer and cocking his downy head.

And with another rush through my floating mind, I did. _Vividly_.

I could _feel _the crunch of frozen snow beneath my shoes. I could _smell _the sharp ice in my nostrils. I could _sense _the heavy weight of borrowed skins weighing me down as they collected melting frost. The miserable entrapment of ice in my stomach, fire around my body, and the cold glance of my brother as I spewed inconsistencies. Blistering whiteness surrounding us. Dark forces at work within us. A scarlet breast signaling to us from the trees. My brother diligently following, marching even as I sowed doubt after doubt in his trusting mind. Bending him because I could. Misleading him so that he could not find what I had planned for him.

"You're the Robin that brought us to the Beavers," I rasped, and carefully made to sit down again, "You protected us."

He tittered, thoroughly pleased, "I would have tried, King Edmund."

"I owe you my life," I realized, "and I don't even know your name."

"King Peter and Queen Susan call me Robin," Robin replied shyly, and scratched at the dry earth with his little feet.

"Robin," I repeated. It was simple and good. "Susan and Peter have already met you?"

"And the Queen Lucy," he grew saddened, tail drooping behind the branch, "I am sorry that the sickness has visited one so kind."

_Peter will find the cure, _I reminded myself, and forced a bright smile while I thought of how he would treat this nice Bird, "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Robin." And after a small moment of deliberation with taking such liberties, "I'm sure we'll be good friends."

Robin's body appeared to have exploded outwards, his form becoming no more than a curious sphere of feathered pleasure as my compliment hit home.

I grinned, "What brings you to the Gardens, Robin?"

"A message, King Edmund."

**OooOooOooOooO**

"_Visitors?" _I was already halfway into my ceremonial clothing, but having the room hidden from sight while I struggled through the neck-hole of my tunic wasn't an issue in venting my exasperation. "Is she out of her mind? We need to tell them to turn around _now!_"

"If you please, King Edmund, we've already sent two messengers- first a Blue-jay, then a Goshawk. Both have been ignored."

I slammed my foot into one boot with an energy I hadn't felt in weeks, and turned to face the Hedgehog named Tiggy-Winkle with a temperamental scowl, "Send a Centaur, then. No one ignores _them_."

She frowned, a little worried at the thought, and passed me a decorative belt for my scabbard.

"King Edmund!" cried Robin. I turned as I buckled the leather strap to my hip and saw him across the room, hopping excitedly on the balcony beyond, "I can see them! They're coming from the South Gate!"

The three of us- Servant, Scout, and King- leaned as far as we could over the balcony, craning our necks left towards the South Gate, squinting in the noon light to distinguish the blob slowly growing as it approached.

"A carriage!" Robin exclaimed, for he had the best eyesight in the huddle, "They're approaching in a Horse-drawn carriage! Why, I've never seen anything like it! I wonder that those poor things would allow it. The compartment looks terribly heavy with all those inlaid jewels..."

"My word," Tiggy-Winkle breathed, her little paws dug into the stone railing, her hind legs dangling.

"Now I can make out their flags- They have some sort of arrow design on them. Whose is that?"

"I'm not versed in vexillology," I quipped, and Tiggy-Winkle stopped craning to give me a startled look.

"What in Aslan's name is that, if you please, sir?"

I shrugged, not really certain myself, and threw up a hand to shield my eyes, peering closely at the two streaks of golden-tan that were headed at the carriage.

Robin narrated the scene for us, "That's two Cheetahs, I think they're telling the Horses to pull over but- Dear Aslan! Those Horses are going mad!"

"What's happened?" I demanded.

"They're thoroughly spooked, like they can't understand the Cheetahs at all. Why, if I didn't know any better, King Edmund, I would think they couldn't talk at all!"

"That's because they can't," I answered, thinking fast, "Robin, can you fly down there and have the Cats return to the Cair?"

"What about stopping the carriage?"

"It's no use stopping the carriage by having it crash. Hurry! I'll find Susan." Without looking to see him carry out my wish, I turned and bolted from the room, racing for the Throne Room. Four floors and ten back halls later, I saw Susan ahead of me and called out her name; It is a sad thing to admit how close to a challenge it sounded. Nonetheless, she turned at my shout, her blue eyes wide as she took in my haggard run. Around us, Animals and Magical Creatures paraded curiously by, nodding to us and bowing, some wishing us a good afternoon as their cavalcade filed neatly into the Throne Room for the show.

"You got the message, then?" she asked wryly, looking to my attire.

"We can't just let foreigners in here, Susan!" I exploded immediately, "They could contract the disease!"

When it was clear my mood was determined to be foul, she pursed her lips and settled her hands over her hips.

"I know that, Edmund. But they seem determined to meet us. And so far, the disease has only spread to children-"

"-SO FAR," I stressed, "These visitors are different! Susan, their horses _can't speak_. They aren't Narnian: We can't have any idea how the disease will affect them."

Susan's eyes narrowed, and she glanced up over my shoulder, her mouth becoming a stern line. "Well it's too late now," she said grimly, and nodded at the Gatekeepers who were signaling us from down the Main hall. Something sharp twisted in my stomach suddenly, and my hands felt hot and my neck was cold. My sister grabbed me by the arm and led me into the Throne Room, so we could be sitting when our univited guests were announced.

I did not like sitting isolated and off to one side. In some respects, it meant the visitors would have to look at me at some point, in the stead of Peter. In another sense, Peter wasn't there to draw the attention away from me, and I wiped my palms on my breeches at the thought. Casually leaning my head against one hand, I peeked a glance at Susan, wondering if she was faring any better than I was. For her part, she seemed very mature, her hands folded gracefully in her lap, her hair braided loosely beneath her crown-

I froze, then grabbed at my bare head with dread. Would our potential political allies take much note of the fact that I had forgotten to wear my crown for our first meeting? I hoped not, and I tried to ease my breathing by repeating the alphabet backwards in an undertone.

A Lemur stepped forward, scroll stretched between his paws, and my heart sped up again.

"Presenting, to the Court of Cair Paravel, Your Majesties, Susan and Edmund: the Count Cillian and Countess Ismene, of Archenland!"

He bowed and loped to the side. Two Giants bowed as they took the doors and carefully swung them in, permitting two figures to step through.

"Edmund..." Susan whispered at my side, utterly in awe, "Edmund, they're _human_."

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**A/N: **

**1) Anyone recognize a certain Hedgehog from their childhood? Seriously- that story paralleled Narnia too much to ignore. She's going to be a useful character in chapters to come.**

**2) Humans: This is one theme that is going to develop with the story. Hang in there til next time, and you'll see why this is such a shock for poor Susan.**

**3) Robin: How can anyone forget that helpful Robin? He's in the book AND the movie, he led them to the Beavers, so they could hear the prophecy, and yet no one seems to write about him...**

**Thanks to all who read! I hope you're having as nice of a good weather streak as I am!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocab:**

_**cavalcade- procession**_

_**vexillology- the study of flags**_

_**desultory- jumping from subject to subject**_


	4. black: The End

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Four: The End  
**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Narnia, I would have kept Adamson for VDT.**

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_"Have the gates of death been opened unto you? Or have you seen the doors of the shadow of death?" Job 38:17_

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**When the King had heard this, he became overjoyed, and urged his wife to tell him where such a cure was held.**

**"Listen well, for these are all the things that our Emperor has shown to me. To the North, there is great range of mountains that stretch from the West to the East," said the Queen, "And at the highest peak, there is a cave. Within this cave, there are three brothers- Creatures from the Magic Lands called dryads. One of these dryads will know about the cure. He will show you where it is."**

**Kissing his wife, the King turned and immediately gathered his knights for travel to the Northern Mountains that stretched from the West to the East.**

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**Narnia, Year 1000: Four days after the High King's departure**

_A Lemur stepped forward, scroll stretched between his paws, and my heart sped up again._

_"Presenting, to the Court of Cair Paravel, Your Majesties, Susan and Edmund: the Count Cillian and Countess Ismene of Archenland!"_

_He bowed and loped to the side. Two Giants bowed as they took the doors and carefully swung them in, permitting two figures to step through._

_"Edmund..." Susan whispered at my side, utterly in awe, "Edmund, they're _human_."_

Lucy raised her eyebrows, forehead wrinkling and lashes batting at the stagnant air as she stared at me from the bed. "They're _humans?_ A Son of Adam and a Daughter of Eve?"

Doctor Saleni was not present, instead on a daily trip to try new medicines and exotic herbs in the lower towns. He had been less than happy with our choice of a guide, but Susan and I had both agreed that Anshu, the shy but sturdy Elephant bull, was a perfect means of parting crowds.

"Bona-fide," I assured her, measuring out another spoonful of broth and watching the oils dance around the filmy top layer, "A tall, strong-built man and a lady young enough to be his daughter. Archenland's king sent them to visit us and check in on how we were faring."

The same king, Susan informed me, that had helped Peter discover the potential whereabouts of the cure. Sometime during the first few weeks of carts and creeks filling with the bodies of the deceased Narnians, but more so in those first few days of Lucy succumbing to the same sickness. Scores of letters had passed by one another in the beaks and claws of Hawks and Harriers, cluttering up the skies between Archenland and Narnia with the scent of parchment and drying ink. Now that I knew a deeper extent of the activities revolving around this mad-cap hunt, I found that I could remember the time spectacularly well.

Specifically because it was when Peter had stopped coming to the same training hours as I did. One morning, leaving the armory and jogging down the ivy-strewn steps to the field, I found myself alone with my Guard and the General.

_'The High King has withdrawn to settle some affairs of the state. He wishes you to carry on, as usual, with your training.'_

Carry on as usual. Right, then.

Lucy opened her mouth enough for me to spoon the broth in, and I distractedly wiped her lip with my thumb while continuing the tale, "They made it sound like a social call. Asking about the architecture of the castle, remarking on the improvement of the roads, wondering who designed the gardens..."

Lucy gave a tired sigh: her newest rendition of an eye-roll. It was considered common knowledge by the Narnians that gardens were more of a nursery for infant Dryads than a playground for shear-happy groundskeepers. Every plant was different; each flower grew at its own rate and in its own direction. The Master Gardener's time was dedicated to caring for the plants in times of sickness and to guide them away from the more troublesome plants. Like Kudzu.

"They were certainly polite about it, though, I'll give them that," Mr. Tumnus remarked. He stepped closer to the bed from her other side, and laid another damp cloth over Lucy's beaded forehead. "Count Cillian even brought gifts, since he heard that one of the Queens was 'incapacitated at the moment.' For you, Queen Valiant: A gentle little palfrey born and bred in the hilly countryside of Archenland. It's been put in the stables, for now."

I spilled a little bit of the broth on the comforters, but the majority made it past Lucy's grey lips.

"Oh! That means I'll get to name it," Lucy said happily, swallowing savory herbs, "I already have about a hundred ideas. What type of color is she?"

"_He's_ yellowish," I said. I had admired him while he was being put away, and had wished with strange intensity that I could ask him about his home country. Surely Archenland couldn't be that different from Narnia, being neighbors as we were? Didn't Talking Animals ever venture over borders?

"Cream? Butterscotch? Tan? Beige?" she asked insistently.

My hand flew up to scratch my ear, and I slid my gaze towards Mr. Tumnus, but he was no better off than I was. Both of his hands fiddled with his own, yellowish scarf as if it might give him the answer.

"Err..."

Lucy blew out a breath, "_Boys_."

Mr. Tumnus cleared his throat:

"In any event, I hope you do feel well enough tomorrow, so that we can take you outside to see it. If the Groundhogs and the Centaurs can agree on anything, it's that tomorrow afternoon should have considerably warmer weather."

"I suppose it wouldn't do me any good to go outside right now," she grumbled.

This was one of the best and most lucid afternoons she had had since she'd contracted the illness. Sitting up and with somewhat of an appetite, she'd managed to stay awake for four consecutive hours, talking with Mr. Tumnus until Susan had permitted me to escape the Archenlanders and visit. Imagine my surprise to enter a room where the window drapes were drawn wide instead of clamped shut! Even now, light was playing with the dust that floated through the soured air and touched gently on my sister's damp head, lifting a gleam of hidden gold from within her hair.

Overcome with a strange and playful affection, I jumped up from my chair and sat heavily beside her, bouncing in place a little as I tickled her sides with my wriggling fingers. I heard Mr. Tumnus make some noise of distaste, maybe take a hoof-step towards us, but at that moment I couldn't have cared less about what he or anyone else thought.

Lucy shrieked at first in shock and bewilderment, then laughed, and finally was reduced to breathless giggles at my unanticipated attack- helpless but utterly safe- until I let up. Looking up at me in delighted wonder, Lucy grinned and poked me in the middle.

I smiled, completely unaffected, "Not there."

She tried again, this time in my neck, making me smirk. Armpits, ears, chin, and knees all followed this inspection, and I only grinned myself silly at her methodical trial-and-error inspection, painfully proud of her persistence.

"Aren't you at _all _ticklish, Edmund?" Lucy finally asked, beaming too much to pout.

"Maybe, maybe not," I said, leaning down close and whispering, "And if you can find out where, I'll give you anything you want."

"Anything?" Her blue eyes were wide and dancing. A healthy red bloom was in her cheeks that hadn't been for days. She was beautiful.

"Anything. But you have to find it first."

"That's not very difficult," Lucy said optimistically, "There's only so much of you."

I bounced back off of the soft bed and onto my chair, reclaiming the broth so quickly that I scalded my hand when some slopped over the sides. I stirred it and blew on a too-hot spoonful. My mirth had dissipated, Mr. Tumnus staring boldly at my profile as if he were trying to understand something that disturbed him deeply. Rather than allow this observation, I scooted forward onto the edge of my seat until I was as close as possible to my sister without pouring the soup down her throat, "Here, have some more."

It was slow work even to feed her a quarter of the filmy concoction and before long Mr. Tumnus decided that any more would upset her stomach. I placed the remainder on her bedside table, certain that one of Lucy's ladies-in-waiting would shepherd the stray bowl back to the kitchens one way or another, and watched as the Faun stepped up beside her and laid a hairy hand on top of her head.

"Queen Susan wished to speak with me after I saw you, so I am afraid I must go."

"Oh. That's all right." Lucy reached up and laced their fingers, swinging hands from side to side in some curious parody of a handshake. "Tell Susan to come visit me later, will you?"

"Of course." He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed the back of her hand. I wanted to tell him to blink his watery eyes away and swallow the strange gargle that had found its way into his throat, but that would be very rude and Lucy would only become upset with me. Eventually, he straightened and squeezed her hand before letting go. "Rest well, Lucy Pevensie."

To me, he said, "Your Highness."

I nodded. "Mr. Tumnus."

He would not meet my eyes when he left, but I didn't care very much about that. Instead, I turned to my sister, and propped my elbows on my knees as she smiled at me.

"I wish I could have met the Archenlanders."

"They weren't very interesting," I lied, "Once you've seen one human, you've seen them all."

That's what I had hoped, in any event. In truth, it had been a mighty and terrifying thrill; here were beings with our shape and our bearing but not of our blood. Here were examples of what lay beyond short stature and gangly arms. Here were humans that had not only tasted nobility, but were bred with it into their bones. Humans that successfully ruled- It was _possible_. It was a glimpse of the future I had not dreamed of receiving.

"You said the man was tall- Was he as tall as Peter?"

"_Taller_," I frowned. And broader. "I don't know how I'd forgotten- When I saw him I remembered that adults are much bigger than kids."

"Adults," Lucy tried the word, frowning a little at me. She shifted, turning onto her side so that she could hug her pillows, "There were adults where we came from. From Spare Oom."

"Lots of them," I replied, "And they were usually very bossy and self-righteous."

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "That can't be... _completely _correct. There were adults that were very loving and understanding."

"Not that I can remember." Though, to be honest, I felt like I remembered less every day. And that I forgot to _remember _that I remembered less every day.

"You were different then," she said very gently, "It might have changed how you saw things."

I wondered if I still saw the things the same way- If perhaps it was _me _that others saw differently.

"The Countess was barely older than Peter," I told her, resting my chin on one hand, "And she didn't speak a word during the entire exchange." Instead, she stood like a porcelain doll, perfect, quiet, and strangely brittle, waiting for her husband to finish. "The Count had pepperings of grey in his hair. He kept talking about how sorry he was for the state of things in Narnia, assured us that he would offer any and all assistance that he could." Surely his continuous glances at Peter's empty throne had indicated to him how much we needed it...

"That's nice of him," Lucy murmured, but it was said with a certain dullness to the edge now- All of this talk and excitement had worn down my sister's starved energy stores. She slowly leaned deeper into her pillows, nearly buried in sweet cotton and musty feathers. Soon she was unaware of me, her breathing measured and slow.

I reached between us to tangle my fingers through hers and thought for a time, doing naught but breathing and rubbing my thumb carefully across Lucy's small knuckles.

In the summerish lighting of the room, I had a sense of somewhere else, of sometime different. In this overwhelming and breathless sensation, _I_ was the one in the bed, and someone else (faceless but warm) was sitting beside me, rubbing my hand. I was terribly frightened then and I had wanted the Someone to do something very important. Something that would protect someone else that I dearly loved.

But they wouldn't.

And I had hated them for it.

**OooOooOooOooO**

"Thank you, my dear Maybeel, these tarts are lovely! And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, I see your good husband has outdone himself again."

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle curtsied, "If you please'm, Piggy-Winkle asked me to tell you that they were baked with fresh acorns. Just as your Majesties prefer."

Susan's smile was fair matched with the sun, "Please tell Piggy-Winkle that I thank him for his kind consideration. I'm sure it's simply marvelous."

It was all marvelous. The day was bright and windy and had forced our small party to find cover beneath the boughs of several Ash Trees, which was just as well for the cool shade they bought us. Blankets and rugs and small tables were lined with piles of cushions for us to sit on as a few of our beloved subjects weighted down the tablecloths with heavy dishes of creams and juices and soup and every other good thing that I was absolutely resolute about avoiding.

"Edmund, would you like some?"

"_No_." A beat. "Thank you."

Susan rolled her eyes, hand sweeping as she sawed easily through the loaf with a long bread-knife. The browned crusts, flaking and buttery, felt around the wood of the cutting board like flower petals. The smell alone was making me on edge- body warring against mind. It didn't help very much when my older sister piled two thick slices of the freshly baked bread on top of a small dish, slathering them both in warm, melting margarine, and set it before me despite my objections.

Stubbornly, I fixed my gaze on the Southern parapets and pretended that I had lost my sense of smell.

"King Edmund," said Count Cillian, trying (and ill succeeding) to appear that sitting cross-legged on the ground was a familiar posture for him, "Surely your Majesty is in need of supplement, this late in the afternoon? It is a fine affair, I must say." For, in truth, he really did appreciate Narnian food- the simpler the better. "I have often found myself craving such a lovely spread."

The Countess Ismene quietly accepted a bowl of sugar lumps from a grey-skinned Dryad named Fraxinus, dipping her spoon into a tureen of light celery and chive soup with all due demureness. Not one dot of it spilled or slopped as it daintily entered her tiny red mouth and was swallowed soundlessly.

"And we have all of your favorite jams," Susan said brightly, accepting a jar or two from one of her ladies-in-waiting, "Strawberry, blueberry, raspberry…"

A faint grinding sound could be heard echoing from my molars.

"No, _thank you_. Just water will be fine."

I knew perfectly well _what_ Susan was trying to do; One would have to be a complete idiot not to. What I didn't know was _why_. Why was my sister suddenly out to sabotage the very practice that she had supported? I was _fasting_ for the sake of Narnia and her citizens. Susan knew that. She'd encouraged that- fighting off well-meaning subjects like Oreius and Saleni and the entirety of my personal Guard. But if she was such an avid supporter, then what was this temptation she was leveling at me? And so well played… It was harder to run full-pelt away from someone when you had kingly duties to attend to your guests.

Uninvited, though they were.

The carriage that Robin had spotted approaching the Cair had only been the first of several, as we found out. Four more carts were wheeled along by massive horses with gold-inlaid reins, their burdens laden with both luggage and luggers- Full cases of clothing for the Countess, fully grown men to lift each case in a team up the front steps of the Cair. These Archenlanders apparently felt that they would be staying for some time, and I had half a mind to correct them of that notion- Susan really couldn't handle entertaining guests on top of all of her normal duties.

I decided to draw the attention away from myself, "Count Cillian, I would like to hear more about your home in Flathers. What is it like there?"

He blinked, slight confusion lifting the muscles of his brow. It wasn't until then that I realized I had split the "t" and "h" as Narnians do when pronouncing the names of people and places.

_Clumsily done, Edmund, _I applauded myself, _Like mispronouncing Derby as 'Durby__...__' _A flash-instant followed of wondering exactly what a "Derby" _was_, but I ultimately decided it couldn't be very important, and opted to focus on the Count, who had began a beautiful account of the wide-spread countryside in Archenland.

Dwilten Manor was the name of their small castle, south of the Winding Arrow Delta, and just shy of the rough-shod hills and valleys that train behind the peak of Stormness Head. Two days ride from Anvard. The soil was thick and dark and grew anything that the Count need. Cotton, or cloud-weed as the Archenlanders called it, was the basic crop because of its demand in hotter places like Calormene. According to Count Cillian, King Lune himself wore clothes made from their crop.

Off to one side, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, royal Laundress that she was, gave a small squeak, her little nose twitching from excitement. I'm sure the thought must have occurred to her that if King Lune was wearing cotton, it was her Aslan-given duty to ensure that my siblings and I were adorned with just as he. The group laughed as a whole, for the sight of a twitching Hedgehog really isn't something one can ignore, or frown at and Susan gave her a smile that clearly carried her intentions to ask about procuring such fabrics in the new future.

Cillian looked between the two, acorn loaf suspended half-way to his mouth before he aborted the move and said quite emphatically, "The High King has already expressed a wish to discuss the matter in more depth. But that can be for another time. After all, a luncheon really is no place for marketing issues."

He winked genially at my sister, and she returned with a hesitant smile, clearly unsure.

And then I realized what his trip had truly been about. It had nothing to do with checking in on Lucy or the state of our epidemic, but everything with business and fishing in troubled waters. This man, nobleman though he was, was first and foremost a salesman, with little fortune and inflated reputation, tapping on our fragile relations and seeing if any would give way. This was what grownups _did_, I remembered. Grownups always had two reasons for doing anything: a good reason, and the true reason. It did not surprise me, nor did it upset me, but it did make me feel strangely safe, because I knew that it meant our relationship (if we could call it that) would not be too pressing or too deep. At the same time, I knew that my gentle sister would not be so easily assimilated with such an arms-length union.

"That time is unfortunately far away, then," I said, wetting my mouth with a sip of cool water, "Because the High King won't be returning to Cair Paravel for a while."

"Your Highness?" wondered the Count. I don't think he expected me to participate in the conversation.

"The High King is away on matters of the state." Or so Peter would call it. "He is resolved to return only when the matter has been settled indefinitely."

'_We can never be completely certain who will be on our side and who will take advantage of our weakness. I trust Lune because Aslan told me about him before He returned to the East. Just promise me that you'll be on your guard with strangers.'_

_Peter looked sharply at me and I understood what he wasn't saying, even if I already knew that _mistrusting_ others wasn't the problem- It was trying to find those worthy enough to trust._

The Count's face visibly fell, and the Countess was as impassive as ever, nibbling with lady-like bites on a sliver of honeydew.

"Actually, Count Cillian," Susan spoke up, her voice softened by embarrassment, "Our brother should be home in the next day or so."

Thankfully, neither one of our guests noticed when my water glass shattered on one of the many unearthed Tree roots beneath the table, though I think I saw Fraxinus wince slightly out of the corner of my eye. My body had gone numb, my brain buzzing with frenzied thoughtlessness as I distantly heard my sister continue.

"We received a message from him only yesterday. He is making all haste to Cair Paravel and will have reached the Great River by now."

Lucy would live.

"This is wondrous news, Queen Susan!" Count Cillian beamed, toasting her with his glass, "His Majesty is returning successful, I pray?"

Lucy would live; Peter would make sure of it. She was already showing some improvement, and this cure, magical or medicinal, would vanquish the illness completely-

But Susan's head was rocking from side to side, her twine and rosemary braids stirring in the cheery air, sending the sweet smell of the flowers straight to my nose, and she folded her lovely hands in her lap with all the grace of a lady- of a grownup- as she calmly delivered the final blow:

"The High King wishes to be with our sister before the end."

The end, so rationally greeted. So mercilessly gentle.

I'm sure that someone must have noticed when I followed my glass to the ground.

* * *

**A/N:**

**This is so unbelievably fun. **

**Unfortunately for Ed, the next chapter is coming very soon, possibly even this coming weekend, at the rate things are going. I've been rereading through Elecktrum's stories (master-pieces that they are) and I've been inspired by so many things she's written. **

**Things are starting in this next chapter, where Edmund will be forced to make an executive decision that will careen this multi-chapter fic into the main plot.  
**

**Also- Pay close attention to the history lessons at the beginning of each chapter.  
**

**Thank you all for reading! If you saw any misspellings, grammatical errors, etc. please don't hesitate to tell me. **

**Liked it? Loved it? Utterly despised it? Don't hesitate to share.  
**

**See you all later this week!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	5. black: An Executive Decision

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Five: An Executive Decision**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Narnia belongs to the C.S Lewis Estate and I intend to win that estate by conquest.**

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_"'For how can I endure to see the evil that will come to my people? Or how can I endure to see the destruction of my countrymen?'" Esther 8:6_

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**And the King took with him these; The good Malfi of Stormness Head that brought fleece and smoked meats, Sentenn of the Amber Quarry that brought straight arrows and longbows, Joniesh Fleet of the Delta Coast, taught by mermaids and waters about the stars and the movement of the heavens, and the young ward Jaeden whom the King and Queen loved as their own. **

**And these four were chosen for the company of the King, for their reputations as men of honor and bravery.**

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**Narnia, Year 1000: Four days after the High King's Departure**

I woke after the sun set, my room a black and suffocating box. Imaginary whispers sat in every corner and eyes watched me from every glimpse of moonlight on the mirrors. The covers were heavy, the pillows smelled of sweat, and my heart was racing in a futile measure against the rigid time of the large oaken clock.

Night. The time for the solitary. Every being on his own, covered, hidden, and cut off from everything except the false and the unreal. My thoughts did not dwell on Archenlanders or archery practice in the morning, but on the one thing that had stirred around in my dreams and made itself known now, embodied in the heavy ache that poured throughout my lungs and limbs.

"Peter's coming home," I told the room at large, daring not to wince at the harsh, unnatural sound of a voice within the haunted chasm, "And he doesn't have the cure."

Movement drew my eyes on all sides, but it did no good to pay mind to tricks of shadows, however gleeful they might seem about the fate assigned to my only little sister. _Me_, I could see dying of something so foul. Me or Susan. But not Peter and certainly not Lucy. They were too vibrant a species to die from illness. My dreams of their deaths were in bloodshed and glory, not slow decay. A day won and a freedom forged with their bones, cooled with their lifeblood. They were not made for such an end as simmering fevers.

"So why would Peter give up?" I asked the night, "Peter never gives up."

And what luck, that the one thing he does give up on is the one thing he should never dare consider abandoning: the quest for the salvation of not only Lucy, but of Narnia.

"He isn't hurt; he would have told Susan."

But I thought about this one for a moment, because I didn't know if Susan would have cared to reveal such details to our uninvited guests. Perhaps he was injured and she just didn't say it at the time.

"Perhaps he's not hurt at all."

Even with an injury, I couldn't envision Peter backing down from a task just to lick his wounds. Peter, I knew, was a proud and stubborn sort of chap. Bossy and all-knowing and well-meaning and utterly adored by every last creature that laid eyes on him. It was unavoidable. Because something about people with pushy personalities drew the indecisive like flies to honey.

I frowned but did not turn over, too aware of myself in the staring room.

If Peter came home, Lucy would die for certain. Narnia had no cure and the cordial was missing. Saleni was doing all he can, but even his medicines weren't enough to combat this disease. She could hold out another week, maybe two with very gentle care...

If Peter did not come home, she could live.

Was that a slim chance? Absolutely. Was it more than what she had? Definitely.

"It's a matter of turning Peter around," I told the shadows, as they danced without moving, "Someone needs to get Peter turned around."

And I knew just the person stubborn enough to do it.

"I need to see Lucy," I decided, before clawing out of my cocoon of coverlets to step down into the shifting darkness.

**OooOooOooOooO**

**Five days after the High King's Departure**

From the peak of the hill, Narnia was laid bare.

Flying peaks and slumbering valleys and Birds chattering and cawing and tweeting around the warming light of the autumn sun, and us high above it all, looking down on our majestic country.

It almost made me glad, for we had been traveling with our backs to the Dawn for ages, facing only the dusty and weary Dusk. Our sight was fixed on cast shadows and dwindling light for too long. The sight of home was lifting morale, at least a little. But even morale can't carry a troop through utter exhaustion. We had been traveling for days without a decent rest; those of us with hooves needed new shoes and those of us with feet required new boots. It was a tired and downcast spirit that had taken us, blanketing the dying warmth of the sun with frigid Fact so that every single one among us knew what we would be forced to face. Our return would not be a merry one, despite the parting gifts from Lune's camp, and the drawn faces of my Guard confirmed their understanding of how spectacularly we had failed.

For now, we walked towards the dawning sun in the East- its colours a little sapped by the autumn chill, its vibrancy looking considerably less the farther we delved into the grungy mists of the river's basin.

Yellion's hindquarters made an irregular movement, and I tightened my perch with chafed knees, throwing up a hand to signal my Guard to stop.

"Yellion?" I asked, ducking low in the saddle to rub at his sweaty neck. His large head swung sideways, brown eyes blinking away a pesky fly.

"It is nothing, Your Majesty. I know how eager you are to continue-"

But I was already swinging myself down from the stirrups, stooping to pick up one of his hooves. Then the other.

"-We won't be able to continue if you work yourself lame, my friend." For in the hind, right hoof a sharp quartz rock was lodged, jagged and already a little bloody.

"Argo!" I said, and the Centaur trotted (though that is a rather dainty word for it) to my side, "We need to take a short break until I can have Yellion ready to ride the remainder of the journey. Send the Twins to survey the land. If they see any Fell, they are to distract and delay. Do _not _let them engage in full combat."

"Yes, my King," Argo rumbled in his low and steady voice. He unwound a swath of old buckskin that had been tucked into his satchel, uncovering a beautiful set of reeds. These reeds were very special to him, and nearly sacred to the rest of his brothers and sisters. They were very like the pan pipes that Fauns adored so well. But these could mimic perfectly, the terrifying scream of a Gryphon.

With a deep breath that puffed his browned belly like a balloon, he set his lips to the mouthpiece and released a valve on the left-hand side. A screech sang through the morning mists, bounding off of hills and valleys. From across the skies, I heard twin replies. Epi and Nor, brother and sister, were flapping drummed staccatos against the fog somewhere high above.

"Very good, Captain." With the Twins circling, there would be much less of a chance for any Fell to fall upon our party again. We had barely escaped from them the last time, surrounded by the rocky walls of the Southern mountains with stained teeth and hooked claws scrabbling up and down the face of the mountainside, pushing us back until we were forced to take cover in a nearby cave. We had taken turns with the watch, scraped and worn from the fast but intense fight.

A long, soft body brushed against my side and I turned to my Lieutenant, "Damask?"

"I smelled a wordless rabbit just a few hundred yards back. Would your Majesty be interested in breakfast?" The she-Leopard's tail wound in the air like it could caress the winds, her cunning eyes and catty smile were both full of the good humour that had served our party so well. Especially after my latest decision.

My stomach growled, "Gladly, thank you." And she was off, slithering into the woods again without disturbing so much as a twig.

"Really, King Peter, I don't want to put everything off by a little rock."

"Yellion," I said, slowly working on the quartz, "We needed to break sooner or later."

He fell quiet for a bit. The makeshift camp was filled with nothing but my steady scratching and the heavy gusting breathing of both Centaur and Horse. After a time, though, I suppose Yellion had finished thinking through whatever he thought needed to be thought through and turned his upper shoulders closer to mine. His velvety nose brushed the jerkin corner peeking out from beneath my leather cuirass.

"Narnia does not lose pride in a King who loves."

I smiled at him just as the quartz came free, "That's very kind of you, Yellion. I thank you."

Yellion frowned, large brow contracting and forelock scattering as he shook his head.

"No, King Peter. I think that-"

_SCREEEEEEEEE!_

Argos danced in place, hand flying to his broad sword and my own swept up Rhindon in front of me. Somewhere high above, the Twins were circling, and they let out another cry, shriller, harsher than the one before.

_SCRRREEEEEEEE-EE-EEE-EEEE!_

"Captain?" I barked. Damask returned from her hunt with a bloody maw, black lips curling up to reveal wicked fangs as her claws retracted and sprang out again, pocketing the dirt of the hill with tiny holes.

"The enemies are approaching on land and by air: The Twins are engaging."

"Tell them to fall back!" I shouted to Argos, meanwhile running to the edge of the hill to scan the valley below. For a long ways, there was nothing but tree line. But there-!

"I see them! They're coming fast! Damask- can you see their ranks?"

She slid to a halt beside me, ears flat against her skull and back muscles bunched as she peered down into Narnia from where I was pointing.

Her ears sprang up in surprise.

"Majesty- Call off the attack!"

"What?"

"Call off the attack!" she hissed at Argos, "That's Cair Paravel's standard!"

At first, I sought the correct use of the word "standard". Then I realized what she was about. With a movement so quick and harsh my neck popped, I stared hard down into the valley, eardrums pounding with the thought;

"_A search party?"_

Argos was blowing into the reeds with so much force, redness sprang to his cheeks. Yet two winged shaped were still hurling from the sky at the Cair's group below, and I looked around quickly to search for a safe way down the hill without falling flat on my face. Why had a search party come out so far for us? Terrible thoughts swam through my mind, poisoning my breath with each awful possibility.

_Aslan, please let Lucy still be alive. Please protect my baby sister._

"Sire, On my back!" Yellion whinnied so I sheathed Rhindon, and fairly leaped into the saddle as we began the quick descent.

"Argos, take the left, Damask: the right. Argos, keep trying to contact them! Perhaps it's the acoustics of the valley that they cannot hear you, but we _cannot _let the Twins keep it up."

_SCREEE! SCREEEEEE!_

I hazarded at glance at the sky, relieved and horrified when another winged figure shot after the Twins- Presumably Gos, my scout for the Battle of Beruna. I recognized his body language. At first I hoped that he would be able to calm the two younger Gryphons that operated under my authority. But then they wheeled and shot _after _Gos, that old and serious veteran, and I realized that this was all falling apart quite splendidly. Before long, one of the Twins had separated to square off with the scout, and the other was swooping low and threateningly over the search party, trying to scare them into scattering.

But they did not.

Perhaps I should explain something, before I go much further, because I know that there are some of you that will be more than a little upset with the Twins for their actions. To put it simply, Gryphons are creatures of prey, like great volant cats. They are hunters and therefore can be slightly territorial. Something that happens with Gryphons (being part lion and part bird) is a bizarre temperament that grips them when that territory is endangered. For the Twins, _I _might be considered that territory. This temperament makes them hostile to any enemies of mine, even to the point where they cannot recognize what they are fighting. It is a trait trained out of most Gryphons in the Narnian army, but the Twins, at two years and seven months, were too young to have that lesson completely drilled into them.

So the fault lies with me for bringing them anyway.

"_Go!" _I urged Yellion, bent low against his ear as his long neck worked in time with the thunderous gait of his gallop. A Horse born in the northern hills of Beruna, he was sure footed as we rode down into the valley, even though Argos was having difficulty keeping up.

We pulled ahead just as the Twins dove precariously close to the single Horse in the band. He screamed, rearing a little. Around him, two Fauns, a Boar, and a Cheetah were all keeping in a tight semi-circle: hissing, grunting, and yelling at the Gryphons that continued to dive at them. They were trying to keep from attacking an ally, but protect each other at the same time.

The Horse, for his part, was trying to tell the Twins off, to keep his friends from retaliating, and to keep another figure, presumably a younger Faun or Dwarf, out of harm's way.

Finally, we came near enough that the party from Cair Paravel hailed me, and Horse twisted, dark eyes wide. I looked away from them to check the skies, spotting the Twins immediately and pulling up alongside the party, my hand latching onto the saddle horn of the other Horse just as Yellion slid to a stop and I bellowed out;

_"HOLD!"_

_SCREEEE!_

They veered sharply off, gliding a ways down the valley to slow down to a canter of their catlike lower limbs. As they shame-facedly loped their way back to the huddle that our two Guards had become, I rounded on the search party.

"_Lucy?"_

They stared at me, lips working in silence.

"Lucy- Is there any word? Has she gotten worse?"

"Well, she certainly hasn't gotten _better_, if that's what you mean," said the figure I had mistaken for a Dwarf, and he walked around the Horse- Philip- who's saddle horn I was suddenly gripping very tightly. Hair in disarray, leather armor scuffed, cheeks sallow, and bandages wound around his head, I still recognized-

"_Edmund?"_

"Hullo to you, too, Your Majesty," said my little brother rather sourly.

**OooOooOooOooO**

It was a general crankiness that gave me the audacity to speak in such a manner.

I had forgotten how tiring travel could be and I, traveling on a stomach full of necessity and worry, was all the more tired for it. For hours we had journeyed under the cover of night, avoiding detection as best we could in a party so pell-mell. We each had risen at impossible hours, girded up, pack provisions, left a short and sweet message for our loved ones, and absconded down the surf. The rising tide soon covered all tracks, and the woods around the Rush River were dense enough to hide us once the sun had risen.

And then there was the small matter of being attacked by the High King's Guard once we'd cleared the tree line. It wasn't exactly the welcome I had anticipated.

"What are you _doing _here?" Peter demanded, drawing in his mount, Yellion, as the Horse shifted a little off of his hind right quarter. His entire face was cast in fiery light, his light eyes boring into mine with more than a little disbelief. No, 'How are you?' or 'You aren't hurt?' because for whatever reason, Peter was more upset with our presence than his Guard's inability to recognize their _other _King.

"Looking for you," I answered, perhaps too hotly, because Philip gave me an indiscreet nudge with his massive body that nearly sent me sprawling, "We received your message."

"Oh, right." Peter's golden brow drew a wrinkled line and he signaled something to the twin Gryphons under his command, summoning them to come closer as they apologetically ducked their way towards us. "We can probably make it back to the Cair by sunset, then. Maybe even in time for some supper."

He turned to his Guard, "For now, we break. Damask, where was that rabbit you were talking about...?"

I was all too aware of the weight of my own Guard's eyes on my back as I conceded and signaled to them to take the respite. Slowly, each settled his or her pack on the ground, passing water skins and measuring off a portion of their rations to savor.

"Majesty," Foible said, hefting his water towards me, "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you. Rest." My eyes were set on Peter's back, resolve circling and trying to settle somewhere deep inside my chest. _Buck up, Pevensie and talk to him…_

"Edmund!" Peter called, waving from where he sat next to a massive Centaur, "Sit down. Tell me everything that's happened since we left."

Sharing a look with Philip, who leaned over to pull up a lipful of sweet grass, I joined them, crossing my legs beneath me. Peter was digging into what looked like a flat, brown stone with his back molars, gnawing a little on the edge in a fashion that reminded me strongly of an Animal. The Centaur, who was eating a similar meal, caught my eye and explained in his deep bass, "Rye bread."

"Oh." I watched at Peter finally worked a chunk of the bread free. He drank a little water and seemed to use it to soften the hardened food until it was somewhat chewable. My mind scrambled for something to say to avoid thinking about crusty old bread too much. "Well, not much has happened, to be honest. Lucy's the same." At the time, I honestly hadn't considered mentioning the Archenlanders.

"How's Susan doing?" he asked, re-wrapping the opprobrious bread and taking one last swig from his water skin, "This can't be very easy for her."

_It isn't easy for any of us. Why does it seem so easy for you?_

"She'll manage. She and Oreius have been thick as thieves. He's been a huge help."

"General Oreius is a good leader," Peter asserted, looking to the mighty Centaur next to him, "You two are related, aren't you Argo?"

"Distantly."

Peter smiled broadly at him, and my stomach twitched. Already, the sun was rising above the trees. Further inaction would only compromise our distance from the Cair, because I knew that Oreius and Susan would not let me slip out from beneath their watches so easily. Even if Lucy was covering for me. I had to win him over, and _quickly_. It would not take much effort to spot our conjoined parties from the sky.

_"_Peter, can I talk to you?" I asked. Hopefully, he wouldn't pick up on the nervous strain that warbled the last word.

"Sure," he said, unbuttoning the flap to his bag and slipping the bread and water back in. "What about?"

"No, I mean, can I talk to you _alone?"_ My eyes were on Peter, but I was truly watching Argo. He seemed to sense it, too, and stood with a graceful _swish_ of his long black tail.

"I will leave your Majesties in private," he rumbled, and walked over to join the Horses, where they were grazing on the lush grass and clovers.

"I say, Edmund, that was incredibly rude-"

"Shut up a moment!" I hissed, clambering onto my heels and edging closer to where he sat. He leaned away from my sudden intensity. "I have a message from Lucy."

Peter's head shot up so quickly, he nearly cracked my skull in two, "From Lucy? I thought you said she wasn't any worse!"

The accusation underlying his tone stung too sharply for me to address, I gave him the dirtiest look I'd felt like giving in weeks and continued;

"I saw her just before I left to find you. She has a message. I didn't know if I believed it at first, but I now I'm sure it wasn't just the fever-"

"_Edmund_," Peter snapped, blue eyes sparking. I felt an old thrill at the sight.

"Lucy says Aslan came to her in a dream. He told her that your life is in danger."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Short, but hopefully sweet. Peter has FINALLY been introduced into the plot (thank Aslan), Edmund has run away from home to ensure his sister's survival, and the illness is still going strong.**

**I heartily invite any and all forms of criticism! Knowing the bad as well as the good helps to develop good writing skills. I'm trying to come at the Pevensie brothers' relationship from a different angle and any input would be greatly appreciated. **

**Hope you all had a lovely Easter.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

_Abscond- to depart secretly, for the purpose of eluding capture._

_Volant- flying, or able to fly_

_Opprobrious_- _abusive_

**Songs: (Before now, it's all been soft, weepy sort of stuff. But now, the action can begin.)**

_Starvation _Two Steps from Hell

_Shh _Frou Frou

_Waiting for Angels _Thomas Newman

_Drifting_ (Guitar) Andy McKee


	6. black: Codeword: Namesake

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Six: Codeword: Namesake**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: One of my friends actually had the pleasure of meeting C.S Lewis' stepson at Liberty University. Sadly, I was not present to beg for the copyrights...**

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_"He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together," _Colossians 1:17

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**The party journeyed for many days until they came upon a bridge woven of vines and owned by an old dwarf called Yelton-Ori.**

**"Good cousin, pray let us cross your bridge," said the King, "For we have traveled many days and still seek our quest's end."**

**"As with everything, the crossing costs an equal price," replied the dwarf. "To save a life, one must give a life. From you sire, I require your firstborn son."**

**The King was furious, and immediately drew his sword, for it had eluded his mind at that moment that the young Jaeden was not his true son. But the King loved him with all of his being, and so he prepared to do battle with the dwarf.**

**Well Yelton-Ori was wily, with traps and speaking creatures at his hand to attack the King. He sent serpents and spiders and all creeping things at the King's feet, and at the King's head he sent crows and mockingbirds and hornets. He laughed at the King until the buttons over his wide belly burst and the frizzled grey beard around his plump mouth was covered in spit.**

**But while the mischievious creature was laughing, the young Jaeden (who was quick in mind) took from the bridge a length of vine, and from the ground the bough of a yew, and from a hornet, it's stinger. And he fitted these so that they fired the hornet's dart at the dwarf from across the bridge. **

**The stinger struck him in the neck, and the wily Yelton-Ori was so surprised, that he turned angrily on the beasts that swarmed the King, saying, "A pact I had made with you, and yet you attack me? Traitors, I'll kill you all!" And he tried to swat at them with his hands, but they quickly became enraged, turning on him and driving him down the mountain side until the party from Archenland could hear his screams no more.**

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**Narnia, Year 1000: Five days after the High King's Departure**

The thunderstorm slowed Peter down.

Gales of wind and pounding waves of rain that ebbed and flowed against the drenched, miserable party came from the East. To the West, as I routinely checked, sunlight still ruled the amaranthine sky.

Peter was not speaking to me. After telling him all that Lucy had dreamed, he had looked at me, shook his head, and said (slowly, as though I was thick);

"Edmund. Part of the sickness is nightmares and strange dreams. Lucy isn't all there. And besides," he added, "sneaking through Fell lands wasn't exactly for _my _health."

I was so angry, so ashamed of his insinuation; my throat had closed up and rendered me mute. I had settled for giving him the worst look I could possibly manage and sat beside Philip for the remainder of breakfast. Peter, in turn, had not glanced at me once for the rest of the morning.

We rode in heavy silence, Philip's back rolling my hips from side to side as he walked in his steady gait. I could feel my stomach pulling and groaning as we continued on, back to the Cair, back to Lucy. I felt sick. I had been there when Lucy had woken up- it was impossible to mistake the truth and beauty in her eyes when they rested on me in the darkness.

_'Edmund- Oh, Edmund!' Tears had streaked down her ruddy cheeks and ran into the sweat of her neck. Edmund, He spoke to me. He spoke to me...!'_

She had been trembling when I found my arms tight around her, and I could have sworn that she smelled of warm sunlight and sweet honey, instead of sour sickness and salty fever. A thrill ran down my spine now, as it had then, when the familiarity of the scent bludgeoned against my mind, pounding incessantly with fear and excitement.

_'The things He said, Edmund I'll never doubt Him again. He spoke my name...'_

_'Shh,' _I had whispered, distressed at the thought of a sentry joining us. Witnessing the unhinging of whatever barrier had been so firmly shut up. _'Peter is-' _Peter had not been._ 'I'm here. I'll take care of you, Lu.'_

She did not want Susan, when I had asked. She did not want Tumnus, either. But her tiny fists had balled into my nightshirt, wrinkling the extra layer just above my heart, and I had kissed her hot cheek. I had brushed back her short hair.

_'He spoke your name, too,' she had murmured. With her face buried in my neck, it had been difficult to deny the words. 'He says your namesake is beginning.'_

My namesake. My role.

Oh, yes. That conversation was still bright and burning in my mind. Standing on a hill drowning in the bleeding sunlight with tents of gold and scarlet rising up from the lush grasses of a tidal land. Everything I touched, all that I saw, was warm. In no corner did ice or chill abide. I did not have to strain to find a glint of the good things, like happiness, pleasure, surprise, affection, or love. Most of all, there was love. And brighter even than the ball of fire that lit that perfect morning, was the golden Being that rested in majestic power before me. A calling that had been echoing through the stepping stones of my life, suddenly deafening and blinding me with the unexpected, the unbelievable, the role I was born to play.

_'Hurry, Edmund.' _Lucy had suddenly pushed me away, wiping her eyes, a fierce look entering them_. _'_Go after Peter. Take whomever you must. I'll explain everything to Susan, but you _must_ go!'_

Another shove had toppled me off of the bedside, and I had just barely caught my footing, too surprised to be upset. Some secret strength had stolen into my sister while she had slept, and she was soon drawing herself up, pulling back the covers, ushering me to the door.

_'Did He heal you?'_ I had kept demanding, as she kept shoving_, _'_Did He tell you where the cure was? Who is going to hurt Peter?'_

_'Go, go!' _Lucy had hissed urgently, and had pulled me down by my arm to kiss my cheek soundly_, _'_Don't worry about me- I don't think Aslan is done with me yet. I'm not healed, but I have a little strength.'_

I had spirited into the dark hallway, charged into the barracks to shake the sinewy limbs of my soldiers, and ransacked my quarters for gear with this assessment rolling wildly around in my head.

It wasn't until hoof beats began to push the Eastern Sea behind us that something finally settled and other thoughts began to stir up. Most of them, doubts.

I remember twisting around in the saddle to stare at the shrinking form of Cair Paravel in the dim night. Its white stones were glowing with the silvery blush of the moon, and my eyes pricked with tears at the dreadful foreboding of leaving the only home I had ever known. I thought of Susan waking up and spending a few hours preparing without ever knowing what I had done or where I had gone. I thought of Orieus assuming the worst and tearing through the lower towns in search of some imaginary assassin. Of dear Lucy, who was braver than I could ever dream of being.

But we had ridden hard away from the Cair for hours with precious few words exchanged and even less information. My Guard ate as they loped, cantered, and flapped. Though I had done nothing to truly prove myself as a leader to them, they had followed as loyal Narnians. I had never been so thankful for the simple obedience of the soldiers; if any of them, even once, had begun to express a dislike of the situation or my decision to leave so impulsively, I might have turned tail to the Cair without a second thought.

And yet, we had reached the River Rush in a little over two hours. My Guard instantly dismissed it as such. We could not have reached it so quickly. It would have taken much longer. This was a different river. This was a different, unmapped discovery. His Majesty was surely mistaken.

We reached the edge of the Dancing Lawn in another two hours, speaking with the Dryads there as to our location.

We reached Peter another two hours after that, just north of the Southern Mountains, an hour or so west of Glasswater.

His Majesty was not so mistaken _then_. A miracle, they had started to say, even after the Dryads had firmly insisted that we were where I had prayed we would be. A miracle of Aslan. Morale had been high. Hopes for success had been higher. Even Foible, usually dour, had been smiling.

Now, though...

I stole a look at Peter through the dripping fringe of my hair and frayed ends of bandages, watching his broad shoulders roll in time with Yellion's step. It wasn't hard to imagine those shoulders straightening and holding stiff, or his light eyes freezing up and burning down at me. Somehow, only days later, Peter looked larger than when he left for the cure, filling the shoulder guards on the leather cuirass. The back of his neck was a dark red from riding from the sun. His light hair was shaded a dull brown from the torrential, freezing rain.

I sneezed.

"Stiff upper lip, Majesty," Philip said below me, throwing in a light trot to jog my attention, "We can't have you catching cold now."

"We need to turn around," I replied, wiping at my nose and brushing rain water out of my eyes. My clinging cloak was doing little to keep me dry. "We're _so close. _How can we go back?"

Philip's shaggy mane rippled in the cold, and his Horsey head bobbed thoughtfully. "You must understand, King Edmund. The High King is not a High King without his King and Queens."

I scoffed.

"And your brother is not a brother at all without siblings," the Horse finished, a little thickly. "Queen Lucy's ailment is breaking his heart. I fear that he will not hold up, and worse, if he is not given the chance for goodbye."

An image entered my mind's eye, then. It was of a large stone teetering on an imbalanced base- on one side a cliff, and the other a deep, spinning pool.

The rolling of Philip's wide back suddenly felt nauseating and I settled a hand over my belly, hoping the warmth would ease a knot out of the tangle lodged there.

"Lucy says Aslan wanted me to go to Peter, because he was in danger," I confessed.

"Are you certain Queen Lucy was not having one of her nightmares?"

My jaw tightened and my legs automatically tensed. I'm sure that Philip felt it.

"Why is it that no one seems to think Aslan can do whatever He ruddy well pleases?" I snapped, angrily swatting my soggy bangs from my eyes again. "He certainly got us to Peter in record time. Everyone was fine with that. But talking to Lucy in a dream? It's sheer nonsense!"

We dipped suddenly, and I nearly slid out of the saddle.

"Your quarrel with your brother has nothing to do with me," Philip said delicately, stepping primly back onto the path the others were following. "It was a perfectly reasonable question, considering the goings-on in Narnia."

Our group passed over a low creek that was brown and rushing as each drop of rain joined it's bending ranks. Peter had to duck to avoid a branch that dipped down with the weight of heavy water. A spray of drops ran perpendicular to the downpour as it whipped back into place. Above the party, a crack of light split the sky for a flash, illuminating the struggling forms of Epi and Nor. Gos had long since given up the prospect of soaring through bolts of lightning, and staggered alongside the Leopardess Damask. Occasionally, her glinting eyes would find him and squint with a roguish smile as his bedraggled feathers. Orieus had once told me Gryphons and Cats considered each other family. I wondered now if Gryphons and Birds felt the same way, or if Birds and Cats would be considered distant-family members as a result. Maybe I would ask Robin, once we returned...

"Perhaps the danger was a lack of supporters," Philip continued, "Perhaps King Peter just needed to see someone in his family to be saved."

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps! Was there no bottom line or decisive answer anymore?

"Whatever it is, I'm going to be ready," I said flatly.

"I pray it is so, Your Majesty."

For another hour or so, the troop staggered on. No natural shelters presented themselves and the storm steadily grew into such a vengeful gale that I couldn't see Philip from my spot on his back, and Peter's voice could barely cut through the high wind and hushing roar of pouring water to order the entire company to a halt.

"We need to find higher ground!" Peter roared, spitting water from his mouth, "Or else the runoff from the mountains will flood us!"

I instantly knew what he meant: Travelling below the highlands of the Southern Mountains meant that whatever rain fell at the time would be quick to run down the rocks and through the scrubby trees, amassing, every trickle becoming a stream, and all streams connecting until we had a fully-grown river on our hands. It would not be ideal to be caught in such a flashing and dangerous flood. We needed to climb up the rocky expanse if we wanted to avoid the worst of it.

"Majesty-" Yellion's voice was lost in the storm, but I could make out Peter's form as he bent closer to hear the rest of what his mount had to say. Then he straightened, and I knew we had a problem.

"What is it?" I yelled to him. To the right of us, a stick began to float above the churning ground.

"It's Yellion's leg," Peter called back after a moment, "He can't hope to climb up that with his leg in the condition it's in." As if to prove it, Peter drew his right foot out of its stirrup and slid down the left of the Horse's back. Large hands lifted up the trouble-hoof of Yellion's' hind right leg as the soil swam downhill, rocks and dead leaves floating on liquidized earth. The leg moved stiffly, not wanting to bend. Philip bowed his head in sympathy.

Argo, with his dark eyes, turned to me.

"King Edmund, you too have noticed the skies?"

"It's raining," I said in answer. "I'd be dead, not to notice." Philip snorted, shaking a spray of water from his stringy mane.

"Yet, to the West, the Sun is burning." Argo pulled up to his full height. "My people have read the heavens from the Beginning, when Aslan first spread the stars and pulled the streams of clouds just so, according to His will."

When he gave nothing more, I urged him, eyeing the storm around us, "Speak your piece, Captain."

Argo's eyes pinned me, "You know what we must do."

Thunder shook the mountainside, and the rolling waters jumped with fright down the steep cliffs. Peter was easing Yellion away from a sudden rift of water that threatened to cut our party in half, and Nor and Epi began to shriek with excitement above us, adrenaline stirring in their feather-light frames. Beneath me, Phillip whinnied and pulled back his head sharply, narrowly avoiding the branch that had swung down from the canopy above, pulled violently from its perch by the strong wind and rain.

"Peter!" I yelled, soothing Phillip with one hand. I could just make out Peter's broad shoulders turn my way as a sheet of rain passed by. "We have to turn back!"

"I'm not leaving Lucy!" he roared back. Lightning cracked down, blinding us with its intensity. A tree ahead of us lit up with fire.

Phillip forgive me- He tried to back away from the fire, but some instinct jogged me and I kicked him closer, ignoring his disgruntled whinny as I edged us towards Peter.

"If we go home now, Lucy _will die!"_ I barked. Peter's eyes were large, his face washed of colour and hair flattened by dark waters. "Keeping on with your asinine quest is the only way she'll have a chance! We have to _try_, Peter!"

"_No!"_

"He speaks sense, your Majesty," a soaking Leopardess yowled, crouched and shivering beside our mounts, "We cannot hope to continue."

As if to prove her right, the burning tree groaned loudly and began to wilt. Its blackened, limp lines could not support the sodden weight of its leafy canopy and it fell with a large crash a few metres ahead of us. Yellion let out a frightened scream, bumping Peter backwards and out of the way. My brother continued to face the seal to our path, wet and dark and burning with helplessness. I saw the moment he crumbled.

"...West," Peter croaked, then turned and bellowed to the whole party, "WEST! We turn West, Narnians!"

West, to safety. West to the Fell Lands.

**OooOooOooOooO**

The Count and Countess of Flathers, Archenland were more difficult to brush off than Susan had expected. To be clear, _everything_ about politics was far more difficult than she had first expected. Peter seemed to take to it, though, like a bird to air. Something about Peter's presence was at once commanding and soothing and Susan missed that presence more with every day that she was left alone to usher Lords and Ladies and Marquees and Dukes through proceedings and introduce them to the Cair.

It had been Peter's idea to reach out a friendly hand to their neighboring countries and assure them that Jadis had been conquered. That Aslan had once more set up Royals to steward His country while He remained in the East. Susan had been very wary of the idea. What would stop these noblemen from attacking, after all? Perhaps Jadis had kept out a few of the bad sort from Narnia' borders. Could the country survive another war?

Peter had insisted. And, once they had been introduced to their neighbor to the South, Susan really didn't see what she'd been worried about. King Lune and Peter were fast friends- their relationship akin to an Uncle and his favourite nephew. Lune was a big-hearted man that adored children, and was soon impressed by the ease with which the Pevensies connected with their people.

"You mean to say, you understood all of that, Your Majesty?" King Lune had asked of Susan during his visit some weeks ago, when one of her messengers fluttered to her shoulder and quickly chirped its message. Susan had blushed at the underlying praise, and shyly admitted that it was actually quite simple, once one had taken the time to understand.

Their alliance with Archenland was not only widely cheered by the native Narnians, but came of great use when the illness swept into Narnia's realm.

Peter had been feverish with determination, writing letters to Lune late into the night, sometimes putting off meals or training, asking all sorts of questions of origins and begging for cures. Susan thought that Peter's intensity might have been what prompted Edmund to act as he was.

It was Lune's delve into Archenland's archives that had spurred Peter to ride out to the Southern mountainside, four days ago.

Now though, now Susan was the one in charge of things. The Cair was all but under her command. Peter was preoccupied with the cure. Edmund was preoccupied with Lucy. And Lucy was preoccupied with nightmares.

"Your Majesty?"

Susan forced a polite smile, willing the tension around her eyes to ease, "Yes, Count Cillian?"

The man smiled back nervously, as if nervous of upsetting her. It was apparent that her will wasn't strong enough to hide her growing discomfort.

"I was just asking about the gardens, Queen Susan. My wife thinks them quite charming; who is it that keeps them?"

'_Edmund does,' _Susan thought immediately. He'd been taking to them more and more since the Head Gardener's sons had grown ill and died, leaving the old Bear destitute with grief. His absence in the gardens was making the plants wither and wilt all around. If Edmund didn't take the time to sit by them under the sturdy Neem Tree and talk aloud, they might have all died weeks ago.

"We are in the process of finding a new gardener, Count. I fear our current one has begged a dismissal."

"A true pity," spoke the Countess demurely, her eyes never quite meeting Susan's. While she was a good five years or so older than Susan was, she was at least two decades younger than her husband. This was not much of an aberration from the ways of Archenland. "I love the terracing effect he has created."

Susan didn't bother correcting her that it was the Dryads, not the Head Gardener, which decided in what direction they would grow. The role of a Gardener was similar to the role of a parent: Keeping the plants from growing bad seeds and keeping them company during the days until they were old enough to move and speak on their own.

A young Faun suddenly appeared across the row of Hyssop, and hailed them. Susan paused, bringing the small party to a halt until the Faun had approached.

"Your Majesty, General Oreius asks for your presence in the Western Wing."

Cold curled around Susan's chest. Turning to her guests, she did not even attempt a smile.

"Count Cillian Countess Ismene. I leave you in the hands of our trusted servant. He will lead you back to your rooms, if you so wish it."

Count Cillian frowned, "And what of our proposal?"

"Another time. Tomorrow, if it suits you. I must…" What was it that Peter said, when he needed to get out of something? "I must attend a matter of delicate urgency."

It seemed to appease them. They smiled at her and with a bow and a curtsey, the couple set off with the archer in the lead. Susan watched them until they reached the halls of the Cair, then she took off running.

Code was extremely important for the staff of the Cair. There was a code for an invasion ("a second winter"), code for the army ("leg-knives"), and even a codeword for baking injuries ("biscuts"). "West" was nothing short of a code for "Edmund." And if Oreius was the one requesting her presence, then Susan could do nothing except to expect the worst. She burst through the Western aisle, immediately seeking out her commanding General.

"Tell me what's happened! Is he sick?"

Oreius was still in his training armour, though, so Susan's mind jumped from fevers and nightmares to gouging bleeds and shield-sized bruises. Perhaps an injury so severe he had needed to be carried straight to his rooms, instead of patching him up on the field as Peter had told her Oreius was prone to do.

"Dear Aslan, he's not-?"

"-Missing." Oreius rumbled. Susan blinked.

"What...? Missing?"

"Queen Susan," Oreius began, looking very calm and very upset simeltaneously, "Have you seen your brother, King Edmund, since yesterday?"

She barely shook her head before he continued.

"His guards are missing as well. No note was left, but one can easily foresee where he has vanished to."

It did not even take a moment. "Peter."

The Centaur nodded.

"But why?"

Here, Orieus was the one to hesitate, and he proceeded only with the most choice of words, "King Edmund... often, in many of his trials and lessons, has displayed a certain determination. It is not unlike his brother's. Nor," he added, "unlike his sisters. But I have come to fear that this force of will is not a mere side to his being at all."

"Edmund has always been, always will be," assured Susan, "The most stubborn boy I have ever known. When he says he'll do something, he does it. When he gets something into his head, there's not a person in all the world that can get in his way."

"I cannot doubt that King Edmund has gone to dissuade the High King from returning home."

The shadow of the smile on Susan's lips dropped into a heavy frown, "We _need_ Peter home! Look how everything is coming apart! I know next to nothing about security or managing guests or rationing aid to the sick- See how easily Edmund slipped out?"

"The fault for King Edmund's disappearance is mine alone, my Queen," Oreius bowed a little at the waist.

"What is he thinking? You saw him yesterday! He can barely get on while he's resting in the castle- what if something happens to him out there? I'm not," Susan said apologetically, "Trying to insult his guard- I know you suggested only the best to protect him. But they can't stop him from getting sick! I'm-" She was unable to speak, she was so upset and flustered at this turn. Too many possibilities and uncertainties had made themselves known in this moment. Susan wished very much for the entire country to just pause at one problem and stick with it. One disaster at a time.

"I can't do this," she confessed tiredly.

Because Susan Pevensie is human, she could not have known that in another hour or so, a second messenger would find her while she was weeping on her bed and announce that the Doctor Saleni had very good news for her and for her younger sister.

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**A/N: Busiest summer of my life. I added some recap on certain goings-on just because it's been so very long. Next chapter: action, fighting, and action.**

**Thanks to everyone who read this chapter!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

_**Vocabulary**_**:**

_amaranthine- ongoing (also- of a purplish/red hue)_

_aberration- deviation from the customary way of things_


	7. black: Where the Memory Ends

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Seven: Where the Memory Ends**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia. Technically.**

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_"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," Hebrews 11:1_

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**And so the Archenlanders crossed the bridge, but it was many days before sunlight could find them again in the crags of the mountainside.**

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**(A/N: Readers, be warned. The title is important here. The next chapter is going to throw some of you, time wise, so hold on. )**

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**Narnia, Year 1000: Six days after the High King's Departure **

We spent the sixth day riding hard into the West.

My body was sore from the saddle, my bandaged head and shoulders ached from sitting up straight for hours. My legs cramped in their stirrups. From time to time I rested flat against Philip's neck and dozed, sometimes exhausted enough to even dream while we cantered and galloped over grasslands and around the Shuddering Wood. I found myself listening to Peter during most of these times, how he related to the troops and brought up spirits with a joking word or a confident affirmation.

They adored him. I can't doubt that they would have followed him West even if the Fell matched us a thousand to one instead of one-hundred to one.

"I know that King Edmund wants very much to know," said Philip to Peter during one of these instances, "But I think he's asleep; What is it that we're looking for?"

And so I played Opossum while the story came out: Peter had contacted King Lune of Archenland soon after Lucy fell ill. To see if the disease had ever been in any of the other countries surrounding us. Lune soon replied in the positive- It had swept through Archenland a century ago and there were records of a cure from that time.

This, Peter had latched onto, and soon the two Kings were trading stories and comparing symptoms and jotting down possible locations of the cure now, a century later. What was the cure? Where was the cure? How did one prevent the disease from returning? Most of their answers came from Dr. Saleni and an old text- nearly a myth- from Lune's great-grandfather. One of his great journey to Mt. Pire with a coterie of Archenlanders and his adopted son, Jaeden.

The Archenlanders called it Winter's Teeth- a delicate flower that only grew in the coldest parts of the world (like the tip of Mt. Pire, apparently). It was said to be a powerful medicine for those sick with the disease which, in that time, was called "Sir Death".

"Why would your Majesty think this flower has taken to growing West?" Philip asked, and I heard the unnatural silence of the rest of my Guard and realized that they may have been too cowed to ask Peter themselves. Philip, for some reason, possibly because he had been with us for a very long time, didn't shy from us four royals like the rest of the Narnians did. "After all, it's not as cold there as it is to the North or in the Southern Mountains."

A heavy, invisible weight settled on my head- Peter was checking over his shoulder to see if I was 'asleep' still. I gentled my breathing and relaxed my face. The weight left me.

"There have been reports," Peter said, "Of remnants of winter in the Western Wood."

If Peter had said he was considering abdicating his throne, the party could not have been muter.

"Remnants of winter?" wondered Foible, too shocked to think before he spoke, "But Jadis is dead!"

"_Impossible_," whispered Megg in a strained and trembling voice, and the Cats growled warily.

"Be at ease. The White Witch _is _dead. Aslan killed her. But her magic was strong, and Queen Susan and I think that it may still cling to the land where her servants live. It keeps them strong in number and," Peter added, with a tone that I could not understand at the time, "it keeps the conditions right for the Winter's Teeth to grow."

"We're relying on _Her_ to survive this?" Philip demanded, the muscles in his neck bunching beneath my cheek. Several of the Guards shushed him to lower his voice, for fear of waking me. "That's _mad!"_

_"_Careful," warned Argo.

"No, it's all right. He's right. It's mad. But it's Lucy's only hope. It's _Narnia's _only hope..." Peter paused. "I only wish he hadn't come."

When the sun began to pull a black cover over the Eastern sky, and there was yet a little light, we camped on a wooded hillside near the Western Wood. Peter told us that we would wake and search first thing in the morning. He looked tired and grey when he said it, and he seemed to have a difficult time dismounting from Yellion's back. It could have been the six days of hard travel and continual anxiety sitting on his mind that made him lose a little footing. Aslan knows we were all in a bad way that evening.

The twins and Picha the Cheetah took watch, their dinner already finished. Argo pulled a set of strange-looking reeds from a pouch at his side and began to softly play them while Megg, Gos, Telnir, and Damask crowded around him to listen. Meanwhile, Peter and Foible set about making the fire.

I rested back against Philip's side and watched them wrestle with numb fingers over the set of flint and damp leaves for a while, and considered giving them my present from Father Christmas to get it going. The flames caught just as I thought it, and the gift remained in the coin pouch on my belt. '_Maybe later_,' I thought, _'I'll find a chance to be useful_.' Immediately, though, I had a terrible sensation that I _shouldn't_ want to be useful; what if the only way I could help here was by saving Peter's life? What if the only way I could be useful was when someone was out to kill him?

"Supper, Edmund," Peter said. He ripped a section of hard, rough bread into two pieces and extended one towards me without looking. I weighed taking it and secretly giving it to Philip versus refusing it and starting another fight, which would surely crop up if he knew I wasn't eating. I could hear his arguments now on immunity-whats'its and fighting off infection and proper nutrition supplements. Across from me, Peter's eyes were shadowed with dark circles, his hands slightly trembling with cold.

"Thanks." I put the bread on my knee and ripped at it a little, occasionally miming putting some towards my mouth. Philip's side heaved behind me. I secreted a portion to him, which he reluctantly snapped up. Bless him. "What's this about a Winterblossom?"

"Winter's Teeth," Peter corrected automatically. "Grows in cold areas. Excellent healing herb mentioned in the Chronicles of Archenland."

"Cold areas," I repeated, playing with the words, "So of course, considering recent events, it would love growing in Narnia."

Peter paused chewing, swallowed harshly. "The Thaw might have killed them. We're hoping the highlands of the Western mountains will have preserved them. Elevation and coldness and whatnot."

"And whatnot."

"Why the sudden interest?" Peter asked abruptly. He took a long swig from his saddle bag, washing back the dry food.

"I think it'd be a phenomenal thing if I knew what we're looking for," I said. I slipped Philip another part of my bread. Again, he ate it. "You know, so I can help look for it."

Peter took another swig, toyed with the cap but ended up leaving the flask uncorked and resting on the ground so that it spilled the remainder of the drink into the damp ground. Not necessarily a waste of resources considering we were very near to a gorge with fresh, mountain stream water. He rubbed his eyes with both hands:

"We don't know what to look for."

I said, "What?"

Peter pushed the flask away across the mud and violently tore at his bread with his hands, my own sitting in dumb fingers. Philip's steady breathing had paused against my back. It seemed that everything had paused.

"You don't know what to look for. You have a name but not a description?"

"The Archenlanders weren't the best chroniclers, Edmund," Peter said waspishly. "Don't you pay any attention during lessons? It's a puzzle of poetry and messy anecdotes. They make everything fact into fairytales just so that people will read it. 'Winter's Teeth' they called it. It's probably not even the plant's real name. It might be anachronistic. It might even be a metaphor or an allusion to something that we Narnians have no idea about. It might all be made up."

A ghosting memory found me, of a little hand in mine, fiery hot, strong as steel.

_'It's no wonder he tried to give up_,' I thought miserably, _'He's read the accounts and he's taking action, but he doesn't have any faith that things will work out.'_

I tossed my bread at him and he caught it out of reflex. "Aslan told me to come here to protect you; He's obviously got an eye on things." I turned away from him, laying against my Horse with my cloak for a blanket. "We _will _find what we're looking for."

My stomach didn't rumble that night. My body didn't ache as much. But my mind was twisted by common nightmares.

**OooOooOooOooO**

_In my dream, Jadis was visiting me in a little room with two beds and a low ceiling. It was a small room, a dark room, but an irritatingly familiar one. I was laying in one of these little beds, the one nearest the door, and the bed by the window held a blanketed form. The door groaned open, and she- so beautiful my heart began to pound wildly- stepped in. She towered over me here, far more than she ever could in her castle. Her piled hair was brushing the low, white-washed ceiling, her train flowing over the scuffed floorboards. The wand, whole as if never broken, rested in her right hand._

_'Son of Adam,' she said to me. Her voice was sweet. 'What are you doing up so late?'_

_'I'm not tired,' I replied in my dream, ignorantly petulant, 'I want to go down and see Dad.'_

_Jadis took a single step to stand beside my bed. One pale hand reached down and stroked snowy cold over my cheeks. 'Daddy's gone to bed, Little Prince. You'll see him in the morning.'_

_The morning wasn't good enough, I knew. Something bad was coming in the morning. _

_The blankets on the little bed by the window shifted, and a low voice mumbled, 'Hush, Traitor, I'm trying to sleep.'_

_I stuck out my tongue, divided tongue dancing, and Jadis caught my chin in her strong fingers. _

_'Come along, Son of Adam,' she cooed, slipping away to catch my hand in hers. She pulled me from beneath the warmth of my covers, exposing me to a dousing cold, and tugged me across the room which suddenly seemed to swallow all light, save a sickly blue glow that came from the ice on the floors and the frozen stone walls. _

_'Come along, Son of Adam,' she smiled, pulling me to her side and wrapping me with furs that made me shiver and stuffing something into the side of my mouth that was sweet and sticky and crusted over what tasted like hot, coppery blood. I choked, but we were moving fasting, suddenly gliding, streaming past white land and grey sky and something red was covering me that was hot at first, but quickly cold and even quicker cementing me to my place at her feet._

_I became aware that I was dreaming, or at least clung to the rationalization that none of this could be happening. That there had been a corpse, and I had gazed at it._

'I'm dreaming,' _I said. I felt the words leave my mouth in two worlds, in the dream, and where my body lay. The trees and snow flew away from us. Here, we were beyond them. '_What are you doing here?'

_And then there was no movement. _

_She watched me._

_Tawny eyes pinned me._

_She held out a bow, loaded her now-broken Wand as an arrow._

_'I'm killing you, Edmund.'_

_And she shot me in the heart._

I jerked from the ground.

Tawny eyes pinned me.

I was yelling even before they blinked into darkness, throwing Shafelm in front of me and spinning in a tight circle in search of those eyes again, "Up, up, everybody _UP!"_

A howl broke the night. Suddenly, our camp was up and moving quite quickly. Blood was thick in the air. I could taste it; Who was dead?

"Edmund?" Peter's voice cried out, raspy and slurred, and I felt a dizzy swarm of relief.

"I'm here!" I called, blood ringing. "Get behind me!"

"Get behind _you?" _Peter replied, sounding insulted, "You get behind _me!"_

An answering howl went up on the other side of camp, far closer than before. I strained my ears for movement, but I could barely hear over my heartbeat. Or maybe that was Philip, who appeared like a phantom at my side, ordering me to mount up.

I gripped his mane and leaped onto his broad back, unsettled by the lack of saddle, hitching my feet up by his hindquarters like a child afraid of the gaping chasm beneath their bed. _Monsters, don't bite me._

Panting breaths, growling laughs, the baying of Jadis' dogs began to circle us. Once on our right- On our left- On front and back. They were trying to frighten us. Make us break into a panic and scatter like chaff in the wind.

"Stay together!" I ordered, my eyes never leaving the darkness, seeing more and more flashes of yellow eyes from around the trees. "All backs together! Everyone face out and keep your weapons steady!" My own was shaking with adrenaline, the blade catching moon like a vapor.

"The night watch is dead," Argo murmured darkly, his broadsword longer than I was tall, "Epi, Nor, and Picha."

Damask hissed: a visceral sound in the night. Philip readily danced beneath me.

There was a loud bark and a scrabble of nails in the earth to the left- the entire group jerked away from it, though they held. Wolfish panting followed opposite, and I saw Yellion rear a little, Peter's head a white gold, Rhindon blazing upwards. There was the scream like an Eagle, and then Gos, the old Gryphon, streaked down and swept back up again, a four-legged form pin wheeling with yelps of distress before it was dropped from hundreds of metres in the sky.

"They come again, Majesties!" Gos cried, and then they were meshed with our ranks.

A throaty snarl sounded directly below me. My head jerked downwards- I had just enough time to re-grip my sweaty sword pommel- and the sharp teeth of the Wolf were digging into the bones of my ankle. I didn't even have a chance to scream- pulled from Phillip's back with what felt like a terribly easy tug. My weight and misbalance were enough to slip me off-center and onto the loamy ground.

My throat inside of his snarling mouth kept me there.

Around me the Guard were locked in battle with the Pack, and beyond them all, I saw a boy's form sever one's head with a single stroke of his arm, gouge one's flank with another. Beside me, I sensed two more jumped onto Phillip's neck, startling him and making him fall to his side, his hind quarters wheeling at the air as he snapped back at them with flatter teeth.

"Phillip!" I cried, fingers working on their own, writhing into the Wolf's gums, wrenching at his teeth and cutting my nails into the black gums above his canines; He was worrying my neck like a rat- snarling but not puncturing the skin there. Yet. My legs were kicking so wildly that the force of them lifted my torso from the ground, and we two fought- Wolf and Boy- to better our grips. I knew I was yelling, but I couldn't tell what, I felt one of my boots connect with something. Hard. The Wolf let out a wounded yelp, snaking away to circle, moonlight cutting down so that I could see his lips fold back and his ears flatten. I scrambled away, grasping at earth for my sword- _-?_ but he sprang forward again, and I didn't have time to pull back my leg this time for a kick. Instead, he bit down hard on my extended limb, dead center of the meaty part of my calf, and jerked me rapidly from side to side.

He began to drag me away into the trees.

I dug my fingers into soil- the dirt packed deep under my nails- and grasped at tree roots or grass stems that all slid or scraped or cut through my hands to escape.

"_NO!" _My throat was on fire, the scream striking something hot and furious and uncontrollable inside of me, and even as he tried to dizzy me from shaking me to and fro, I writhed just as manically on my end, lashing out at his snout and eyes with my spare leg, "Let me go! Let me _GO!" _

_"EDMUND!"_

And then, suddenly, the spur of my boot plunged into something that gave way completely, and it spurted blood across me as the Wolf howled and danced back, flipping and whimpering and growling in turns as he ran into trees and disappeared into the wood as I watched from the ground. A howl went up, but it wasn't one for retreat. Instead, more dark shapes seemed to morph from the Wood. The hissing of arrows could only bring so many down when the Faun Archers were practically blind.

"Edmund! Come on, Ed, come _on!" _Strong hands were lifting me to my feet and dragging me back to the center group. White hair and pale eyes reflected back at me. "Stay awake, Ed."

"I'm fine." I was _alive_- I felt grossly empowered, though bleeding freely from my leg, and I jumped back up to search the ground for Shafelm. "Get behind me."

At that distance, I could barely make out the wrinkle at the top of Peter's nose. Rhindon glittered in front of him as he quickly scanned around us. "Come on-!" He grabbed hold of my arm, dragged me back to the center of the group, who were glaring and growling and squealing out at the flashes of yellow in the pitch back. Argo's hand clapped me on the back. I still couldn't find my sword, but that was fine, because the strength that filled me would have been enough to rip a Wolf in two barehanded. I had the strangest feeling that I could predict what their next moves would be.

Peter stumbled against me. I shot out a hand to push him upright. Felt him waver too far in the other direction.

"Peter?"

"Fine."

Not so. There was no heat radiating from the muscled arm that I gripped. None at all. I gripped harder, felt a weak pulse against my fingers somewhere deep under the skin.

"_Are you hurt?"_

"Majesties, again!" cried Gos. Peter drew Rhindon up- Weakly. How could I not have seen how weakly-? and I faced outwards with open hands, heart in my throat where the bite marks sang.

The Wolves were slower now, as I somehow knew they would be. They crept around us, wary of our bite. We were short on soldiers- How many more had died? _Aslan. _Would we even make it to the mountains at this rate?

The Guards seemed to sense the same futility that I did.

"Edmund, Peter: up!" said Philip, and I felt giant hands tuck under my arms and lift me like a toddler onto my Horse's bare back, even as I looked wildly for a way back down. A heavy weight rested behind me; Argo had lifted Peter up like a child, too, and now my older brother was leaning hard against me, panting and shaking as he reached around me for Philip's mane.

"Leave, find safety- Edmund," Argo said, and his dark eyes glowed like a cat's in the night, "Look out for him." He stepped away, took a sweeping slash at the Wolves in front with his broadsword, and Philip reared beneath us.

We were suddenly through those dark trees. Peter's arms sagged around my middle, hands wrapped in Philip's mane with mine. Wolves howled, louder than ever, right in my ears, and we flew through the darkness, blind to everything, eyes stinging with cold wind and skin burning with the whip of branches. We couldn't have gotten far before I felt Peter jerk behind me, his breath rush past my ear.

"What?" I asked, voice cracking with fear, "What is it?"

My right shoulder felt very hot and then very cold- wet. I smelled iron. Peter's head slipped to fall against my back and his arms fell away from me. I just barely caught hold of one of them, my other hand desperately gripping at the Horse's thick hair.

"Peter! _Peter!"_

"What is it?" Philip cried from below me, slowly only slightly. Peter was slipping backwards. I gripped tight to Philip's sides using my knees and threw both hands back to catch his elbows, drawing his arms tightly around me and pinning them with one hand together at my front. I regained my hold on Philip with the other. I felt a brush on my foot, looked down in time to see a shaggy body slip away from us again.

"Go! _Hi, Philip, __**run!**_"

Our gallop turned into a ferocious charge, I had to lean down over Philip's neck like a jockey to avoid losing an eye to the foliage as we rushed past. All around us the sound of panting and growls, barking laughs, grew in a chorus- Their numbers were increasing the farther we went from the Guard. Were we meant to be driven this way? Was that their plan all along? I had no sword. I could not reach Peter's. I was too weak to fight them all off.

"_Shake them off," _I gasped.

Philip sharply turned to the right, hind legs skidding into the brush so we slid, then launched forwards again. He did this several times. I still saw eyes following us in the darkness. Wolves are frighteningly agile creatures- far more so than Horses. But no one can endure the run as long as a Horse, and I would not give friend or foe rest. There were times when Philip seemed to slow, thinking us safe, and I would, Aslan bless him, _kick_ his sides so that he started running again. My voice had left me a short while into the ride. Peter was all silence behind me.

"I hear water," Philip panted finally. "Loud water."

I heard nothing. I was listening for heartbeats. Mine, at least, was a constant, drumming thunder buzzing in my ears.

"We should keep going," I managed. We slowed a little. The thundering began to grow, something tumultuous and raging.

"We should check on the High King," Philip said, and gentled his run to a canter.

Instead, I felt a flash of urgency and found myself suddenly, strongly pulling him to the side.

Instead, Philip stumbled, tipping dangerously to the side I had pulled Peter to.

Something whizzed by my cheek, cutting me, and suddenly we were flying, Peter and I, down into a rushing blackness that only stopped when my body caught and my head cracked against rock.

From there, everything is patchy whispers of grey.

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**A/N: The next chapter should be up soon. But like I said: jump. We're taking a bit of one. **

**Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I had so much fun writing it. More action, more brothers, more plot to come! Please let me know if anything in this chapter confused you, if you saw any facutal errors, or spelling/grammar mistakes: I've already gone back and fixed the bread, head, and the severing of another head. Lion's blessings upon your sharp eyes.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	8. black: The Samaritan Nest

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Eight: The Samaritan Nest**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Why bother starting from scratch when such a great play land exists in Narnia?**

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"_But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion," Luke 10:33_

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**Yet on the fifth day, they came to a cave, and the King stopped the party to dismount and continue on foot, for the cave was low and partially covered by wood. It was in this cave that Immortality lived, and she hated dear Sir Death. **

**When the King and his men saw her, they bowed low, for she was hauntingly fair and a dangerous enchantress in her own right.**

"**Idunn," the King beseeched her, and this was her name in Archenland, "I have travelled far on behalf of my beloved Wife, who even now holds off Sir Death on the battlefield. I beg you- stave him so that he may not visit her on the tenth night of her promise."**

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**Then-**

_"I hear water," Philip panted finally. "Loud water."_

_I heard nothing. I was listening for heartbeats. Mine, at least, was a constant, drumming thunder buzzing in my ears._

_"We should keep going," I managed. We slowed a little. The thundering began to grow, something tumultuous and raging._

_"We should check on the High King," Philip said, and gentled his run to a canter._

_Instead, I felt a flash of urgency and found myself suddenly, strongly pulling him to the side._

_Instead, Philip stumbled, tipping dangerously to the side I had pulled Peter to._

_Something whizzed by my cheek, cutting me, and suddenly we were flying, Peter and I, down into a rushing blackness that only stopped when my body caught and my head cracked against rock._

_From there, everything is patchy whispers of grey._

**Now-**

**Narnia Year 1000: ? Days after the High King's Departure**

_My stomach was growling angrily, and a savory taste was running down my tongue and into my throat. I gulped desperately, mind reverting to the most basic of needs while slowly coming to sense my surroundings- the plush warmth beneath me, the warmth above me, the hot soup running down my throat, and a voice that was soft and crooning, saying;_

_"That's it. Easy, now, there's plenty left."_

_"Mum..." I wept, feeling so strangely light. Was I sick? Was I dying?_

_Gentle hands smoothed my hair._

_"That's all right, Edmund. I imagine your head's a little scrambled after that fall. Here, eat a little more and then you can sleep."_

_But my throat was too tight to swallow, and I turned my face away from the pressure of the bowl against my lips, chin trembling._

_"Here, now. Easy, my dear." Soft hands tucked the downy covers around me and wiped hot tears from my cheeks. "It's all right. You're all right."_

_I was miserable. But soon I was fast asleep, a familiar taste dancing on my tongue like nectar._

**OooOooOooOooO**

I can hear a steady fire and the sound of something grating against metal, a smell so good I have to swallow my spit, grimacing and turning my head deeper into the warm furs that bundled me.

For a moment, I listen to the calls of birds somewhere far away, register the radiating heat that washes over my face in waves, lapping over my skin and drawing away again so that I felt almost cold. I grimace, turn over, feel a cold emanating from the space in front of me- I can feel my breath rebounding back at my nose. I open my eyes to stone, and roll over, tracing that stone as it arcs above and dips down behind a cloaked figure, stirring a large, bubbling pot over an open fire. Her hands are gnarled and scaly. Her face is hidden beneath her cowl.

"Awake again, are we?" A voice like strong fire crackles against my ear.

I frown. Try to work out what has been said.

She glances my way- the fire glitters over her reflective eyes, but obscures her features. "Or are we not quite?"

I lick my cracked lips, lie back down and stare around me. A mindless weariness compels me to try to sleep again.

"Not just yet, sire," she says and stands. She's not very tall. I can tell, even though I am lying down and looking up, but she hobbles with a bent back like an old lady, and she extends a bowl full of the bubbling liquid in the cauldron towards me. "Eat. Just a little before you sleep again."

I shake my head, turn away. I'm not supposed to eat.

"You must," she says reproachfully, "Just a little. I'm not letting you die, too."

"Not dying," I say. My throat aches. I don't want to talk again, but I want to be left alone, "Fasting."

A quick cackle is given at that. Something squirms in the back of my mind. "You're finished with _your _fast, King Edmund. You've eaten plenty in the last few days."

I don't remember that. I don't remember any of it. I refuse the food that she presses to my lips, and eventually she gives up.

"Fine, if you're going to be stupid about it." She moves away from me again, clattering around the fire, muttering to herself about "the other one", but I'm already drifting, and soon I'm walking through dreams of red suns at morning and golden manes haloing salvation.

**OooOooOooOooO**

A low cry wakes me, like that of a kid blubbering over a scraped knee or a lost toy. I shift, trying to get deeper beneath the furs, hoping I can drown the sound out, but it persists. And then it sounds familiar.

I sit up, kicking off the furs with bare feet. Cold instantly invades me, the heat from beneath the fur evaporating into the night air. The hooded person from before is missing in the cave, from what I can see in the dimmed light of the dying fire, but a shape that is larger than hers lays on its back on the other side of the smoldering wood. It makes ill shifts, swamped in blankets much like mine. A pathetic sound is coming out of it.

"Hey..." I say, edging towards it and looking back at my spot with unease. The form shifts again, moans a cry for its mother, and I take another step. "Hey, are you all right?"

It pants weakly, twitches a little. The low glow from the red firewood casts a sinister veil over its shiny face, over the sunken eyes and scaly mouth and the red, blood red of its skin. A large hand trembles out from beneath the furs, grappling weakly at the air. I reach up and catch it, marveling at how cold it feels, how damp, in my strong and warm hands.

"_Mum..." _cries figure, and it coughs like a colicky baby, hand pulling and pushing mine in turns. It coughs and keeps coughing.

A flapping has started up in my stomach, and I'm helpless to do anything but let my fingers be crushed. There is no water to give. No one comes flying in with an antidote like at the Cair. I am suddenly very aware of how dark the outside of the cave is. Of how quiet it is out there, against the cracking echo of misery. The fire is too weak to keep it warm- hands like melting ice are held in mine for hours. Time to time, I consider telling nonsensical stories, but I can think of none. More than that- I remember none. There is nothing nonsensical before this moment. Nothing but impossible sickness and unimaginable battle and eternal blood and forever ice before that.

"_Mum- Mummy_..." It moans, nose buried against my folded knee. I pull the furs up higher so that they reach the trembling chin; rub a thumb against the knotted worry that folds the forehead.

'A Mum,' I realize. I had forgotten about mums. I wonder if she's still in Narnia or if something happened to her when I was too young to remember.

**OooOooOooOooO**

An owl hoots somewhere, jerking me into light and birdsong.

I blink against red leaves and fur and something that smells of sickness, and spit out a feathering of hair that I have accidentally inhaled into my mouth. Peter sleeps on beside me, a pale grey, still and loose, his breath coming in small sips through his cracked lips and out of his nose. The furs are tangled around him and partially cover my lower legs. The fire is taller, fresh wood piled next to it. A large black cauldron hangs over it, bubbling with a watery concoction that I dare not investigate. Our mysterious caretaker is still not with us, but it would appear they had visited in the night.

I sit up, stretching against a large yawn, and jump to my feet, which proves to be harder than I thought because as soon as I'm standing, I find myself sitting again, my head spinning around in turbulent circles.

A cackle comes from behind me. I careen my head towards the source as delicately as I can.

The same hooded figure is entering the cave. I had expected an old woman. A Fae. I see withered grey hair that falls in clumps, braids and beads around her dried-up face. A black and red beak hooks down with a point that can tear flesh, her scaly feathered fingers grip a large brown bag. Her black eyes are pinned on my brother.

A Hag. Sweet Aslan, we're in a Hag's Nest.

"_Who are you?" _I demand, wishing that my voice were deeper, or even that it wasn't starting to crack, "What do you want with us?"

I expect the Hag to cackle again, and she does, but I don't expect her to drop the bag with practiced familiarity and settle beside me to pull back one of my eyelids. By the time I come to my senses that I should be striking out at her, she's already withdrawn and is leisurely stirring the cauldron. My hands twitch at damp earth for the ghostly feel of metal. My heart has become a furious machine, each beat unnaturally strong.

"Check your pocket, Son of Adam," she says, never glancing my way. I catch familiarity again, but don't pause to investigate it. My hand settles over the front pocket of my breeches, feeling a rectangular shape that crinkles. I reach in to find a folded parchment, which I cautiously unfold, keeping one eye on the Fell beast that I know Jadis had treasured most.

_Your name is Edmund. Eat and check on Peter._

It's written in my own handwriting.

"But I _know _my own name," I say, surprised into petulance.

"There were times that you did not," the Hag remarks, "We eventually decided that this was the best way to avoid another misunderstanding."

"Well it didn't work," I retort. The air reeks with magic. Who is to say it isn't the reason I can't remember?

"You don't trust me. Good. You'd be an idiot if you did," she says coolly. She rises with an earthen bowl of whatever was in the cauldron, lifting the hem of her thick robes to hobble around me. My back tenses as she kneels beside Peter. "And I don't keep company with idiots."

"What are you doing to him?" I ask sharply. She dips a bundle of leaves into the bowl, peeling back the reddened bandage covering his right shoulder. I realize that Peter is bare from the waist up, his skin a slick, sick grey. The flesh at his shoulder is matted and nearly black. I swallow hard and blink to clear the white that falls over my eyes. I feel the same mad power in my body now as I did during the attack by the Wolves, and distantly wonder if I should warn this Fell Beast what I'll do to her if she hurts my brother.

The Hag "hmms" and brushes the leaves over the rotten flesh. Peter doesn't so much as inhale.

I feel sick. This stoicism isn'tbecause Peter is strong. "What happened to us?"

"We've established that you don't remember falling into the ravine. But you did. Right into my fishing net. I lower it into the river when it's not tied up by the rocks where you landed. It's made of Talley Rope, too, which makes it flexible and good for stretching under weight. You lot fell into it, and must have been hanging there for a day at least until I came by to check the vines."

She presses the whole bundle hard against the shoulder, pulling fresh folded linen from a pouch at her belt to cover it. "I brought you both here in my wagon, which is broken now, thanks to you, and you bit clean through the skin of my left hand when I let you out, so thanks for that as well."

She appraises her left palm, which is as thickly wrapped as Peter's shoulder. I close my eyes and shake my head, committing to memorize these details later. "What's wrong with _Peter_?"

"Poisoned. I had to take the arrow out, but the arrowhead is still buried in his shoulder, here," she taps her own shoulder, the right one, and I slowly look over to find Peter's bandaged and red. "But the arrow didn't cause the worst of it- it looks like he was taking something internally. He's thrown up everything he's ever eaten in the past few days."

"I- Poison? What arrow?"

The Hag stops plastering down Peter's new bandage and looks up at me with gummy black eyes. I have to clap a hand over my stomach to ease the sickening jolt it gives.

"When I unraveled you from the net, _he _had an arrow lodged in his shoulder and _you _had knocked your brains loose. Neither of you have gotten much better over the past few days, I have to say."

"'The past few days'?" I asked impatiently, "How long have we been here? Three days? Four?"

"Enough questions, Son of Adam!" Her beak snaps violently as she pushes away from Peter, leaving the furs in disarray by his stomach. She stomps back to the cauldron and I pull them back up to his chin. "Every day, for the past three days, it's the same annoying ritual. Where are we? Why are we here? Who are you? How do I know I can trust you? Pah!" She spits hard into the fire, which leaps and makes me fall back. "It's a miracle you _haven't _been killed yet, you brat, with the way you yammer on."

The Hag continues complaining to herself as she packs her bag and sets off to the front of the cave. I start to follow, because no matter what she says, I am bursting with questions, longing to fill the gaping black in my memory. But she whirls on me at the entrance, her black eyes sucking at the scant light and refreshing silver memories that sit heavy in the back of my mind.

"_Stay here,"_ she hisses. "If you and your brother want to survive this day, you will _stay here_." And she disappears from the mouth of the cave, which is divided in two, which something thick and black sitting in the center of the entrance. I can hear birds and smell fresh Autumn air from where I stand.

But I stay, and that is why I am with Peter when he dies.

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**A/N:**

**This makes the next chapter particularly important. **

**Also- who knows their Gaelic mythology? A lot is crammed into this story, like the **_**importante**_** history lessons at the beginning of each chapter.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	9. black: Brighid

**Monochrome**

**Chapter Nine: Brighid**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim the parts that the Lewis Estate, courtesy of Gresham Lewis, lends me, i.e: all the good bits.**

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_"Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?" I Corinthians 15:55_

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**At first, Idunn would not consider it, for the Queen, despite all of her cleverness, had made a Vow to join Death on the tenth night. But then Idunn looked at Jaeden, whose youth and beauty matched her own, and she offered the King a deal.**

"**Leave me your son," she asked, "That I might teach him of Magics and how to live forever, so that he might stay with me as my companion. Then, I will grant your wife the gift of immortality."**

**And Jaeden, who was also taken with Idunn, begged his father to consent to the match.**

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**Then:**

_The Hag continues complaining to herself as she packs her bag and sets off to the front of the cave. I start to follow, because no matter what she says, I am bursting with questions, longing to fill the gaping black in my memory. But she whirls on me at the entrance, her black eyes sucking at the scant light and refreshing silver memories that sit heavy in the back of my mind._

_"Stay here," she hisses. "If you and your brother want to survive this day, you will stay here." And she disappears from the mouth of the cave, which is divided in two, with something thick and black sitting in the center of the entrance. I can hear birds and smell fresh autumn air from where I stand._

_But I stay, and that is why I am with Peter when he dies._

**Now:**

**Narnia: Year 1000 ? Days After the High King's Departure**

When Peter dies, I don't realize it, because I am preoccupied:

I cannot pass the entrance.

I had been sitting beside my brother for what must have been an hour, checking his breathing or bandages, and praying that neither changed because I wouldn't know what to do if they did. A small voice began to nag at me from some small corner of my mind.

_What are you doing? Listening to a Fell's advice? You need to find a way out of here before she kills you both!_

In spite of the fact that the same Fell may have _saved _our lives, I didn't feel safe enough to discount an alternative scheme. Not this time.

Covering Peter's naked torso with the furs, I fold my feet under me and stand. The cave tips only gently. Encouraged, I slowly make my way to where the Hag left.

The dark shape I noticed before is a tree- it rests almost like a door over the front of the cave's mouth, thicker around than a Giant. A boy like me could easily squeeze between the space made by the trunk and the cave wall. A boy like Peter would have significantly more trouble. I glance back; Peter lies still. He has not moved since I first woke up. I turn to the entrance again, inhaling deeply of the sweet autumn air, which tastes like sugary smoke and clear winds. I reach out to get leverage on the trunk, and my hand bumps against thin air.

I stop. I try to push outwards again. The same invisible wall holds. I kick it.

The air is blown out of my mouth as I land on my back- knocked clear across the cave and back to Peter's side. I stay on my back, gasping, and moan as I roll to feet again.

I find that the invisible wall cannot be burnt either. Or dug under. Or cut. It would take forever to saw down the tree, and even then I don't think it would desist. I am reduced again to waiting. I dig around in the furs for any remains of our bags or our cloaks, but come up empty. I don't remember losing them, but then again, I don't remember getting lost.

My hand bumps almost subconsciously against my pocket- checking for my Christmas gift. A small lump reassures me.

Looking to Peter again, who is so still and so somber and grey, I reach in and pull it out.

"It" is a small lump of coal. I had found it in my shredded stocking Christmas morning and had at first suspected Jadis of playing another cruel joke. In reality, that small lump had saved my life more than once in her camps. I was certain that it was an enchanted coal. There were many nights I should have frozen to death and did not. I took it with me everywhere, unwilling to part with that magic token.

"But I think you need this," I say to Peter now. I sit beside him and place the coal on his chest, tucked just under his chin. "These furs don't help much against a stone floor."

"_Mmm_..." Peter breathes. Already I can see some color returning to his cheeks. I check his bandages again, steadied by the pulse beneath them, and watch him sleep until I join.

Peter had been dead for many minutes, but I won't learn that until later.

**OooOooOooOooO**

The Hag takes one step into the Nest and freezes.

I had heard her from a ways off, the crackling leaves announcing her footfall like trumpets, but opted not to rise from my nap beside Peter. With the coal tucked into his furs, he's much warmer, making him the best place to be while the fire is dead, the autumn day cooling, and a potential murderer coming and going as she pleases.

In the shadows of the twilight cave, the Hag clambers around the tree trunk with her beads and braids and bags of dried mint. She stops dead and her glittering eyes hunt us out in the darkness.

"Son of Adam," she says. "You're looking well."

"Surprised?" I ask, easing myself up beside my older brother. He stirs and shifts a little. The Hag's iron gaze has switched to him. The way she looks at him makes my blood crawl.

"Yes," she admits, and throws down her bags. The fire roars to life in front of her, like a dog leaping onto its hind legs for its master. She crows when I startle backwards, and waves a veiny hand over the flames. They settle grudgingly. "The Nest is restless," she tells me, fixing a beady eye on mine, "Trying to escape?"

"Trying to see if I could," I find myself saying.

"So that you could do what?"

"Send a message. Find help. Get weapons. Get bearings."

"And leave your brother behind?"

"I would wait until he could walk. Then, if I couldn't kill you, we'd escape during the day when Hags like to sleep."

"Oho!" She is clearly amused by this. "You would kill me?"

"Easily. I know the Fell. Jadis knew them."

"Jadis was a liar." She looks at me across the glowing fire. "You will never be able to lie to me in my Nest. The magics here are bound to me, Edmund. They answer to me. They will drag the truth out of you by whatever means. _Do not plot against me_. You can feel that you are trapped here, if you wish, but I have done nothing but protect you and your brother. This Nest is a fortress. If it feels you are enough of a threat, it will kill you where you stand."

A slap to the face couldn't have more sting than her blunt honesty; I am trembling and shamefully tearing, but she isn't looking at me anymore. Unconcerned, she turns to her bags and pulls out bottles with crushed leaves, oils, and salves. I hate this feeling of helplessness. Of insignificance. If we are going to be enemies, I would rather this Fell beast strike me down as a threat than ignore me as a boy. For a long while, the cave is just sounds of bumping glass, Peter's breathing, the crack of blackening wood inside the fire.

"My name is Brighid." (1)

I look up.

The Hag is looking at me again. Something in her black eyes has softened. For just an instant, not more than a blink, I feel like I'm seeing someone that was once... _more_. There is a lift in her sagging eyelids, a coy tuck like a smile where her wicked beak folds, and a gentleness about her that brings an incredible ache to my chest. Then, all too suddenly, Brighid is hideous again and we are in a stalemate across an open pit of flame.

Slowly, I nod in recognition, "I'm Edmund."

"And your brother?"

I half-laugh. "That's Peter."

"Hmm, yes. You have the same face," Brighid says off-handedly, back to ignoring me. She lifts her glass jars and squints through the sides, "Hawthorn." She tosses the jar at me. It sails through the tall fire, and I catch it out of reflex, expecting heat a second too late, and then surprising myself to find that it's cool. More magic. "Memorize that plant, Edmund. Your brother will need more of it come morning, and I may send you out to look."

"Go outside?" I demand, bewildered by the sudden pit in my chest, "By myself?"

Without Peter?

"I said _may_. You were the curious one," Brighid says snidely, "And I'm the old one. I can't go running around the mountainside day-in and day-out." She watches my desperate glance back at my older brother, "You don't trust me with him?"

"No. Yes. Its-" I don't know how to answer that, but I can _feel_ the Nest's magic this time. It's like sharp burrs wriggling into my head and pulling words along my tongue from places in my mind I didn't know existed. "There's something I need to do. Someone told me. _It's my role_."

"What role?" she asks curiously.

I feel compelled to not answer. The magic needles into my thoughts; I clench my teeth against it. I dare it to make me.

"Answer me, Edmund," Brighid says entreatingly, and suddenly it's like cracking through glass, and the black cave is white tundra, and the needling is all over my body, and I can feel that pit that forms from the cold pinch of dark magic. Yawning, eon's deep- it demands to be filled, threatens to kill me. I know this magic. I know all about this magic. Jadis was a liar, but she knew the truth better than anyone. I knew her better than anyone.

"I don't answer to you," my mouth snarls somewhere apart from me. It is both a truth and an evasion, and the magic knows it. My mind goes cold and numb under its strain. I try not to let myself feel anything. It's better that way. But warmth is swelling up from a lump in my chest that coincides with the sharp, digging, _Who do I answer to? _Growing and roaring in my ears. I know her hands are reaching for me, and I react sightlessly, tasting sweet immortality and wanting to vomit. Darkness is such a relief...

...Even if it's only for a moment.

"You blasted brat: you bit me again," Brighid says from above me.

Metal blood coats my tongue. Heat traps me on one side, almost cold, from the fire. I roll my eyes over to find the Hag standing, one feather-scaled hand cradled and dripping from the other.

"Good."

Her black eyes flash, "Try that again, and the Nest's magic won't be so lenient. It sedated you. Next time, it could kill you, Son of Adam."

"_I dare it,"_ I snap back. "What is it waiting for?"

"For your senses to return, if you ever had them."

My teeth grit, stung. "You claim to help us, but what do you really want- secrets? Answers? You'd hold us captive until you score some riches? It won't happen!"

"Even if you were worth your weight in _gold_, Son of Adam, there's barely enough of you to fill a phial. By all means, I should be paid more than that for putting up with this behavior in my home!"

"In _your home?" _A short bark escapes me. "Try _my country_. Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Only your savior! Only your life debt! Tell me- do all Kings of Narnia so easily brush that off? Even Jadis honored it."

"_Jadis honored nothing," _I cry, standing flushed. I have never been so angry in all my life. I am drumming with it, my skin tight against my bones, "That _witch- _She honored _nothing. _Don't try to tell me about Jadis. Don't even _speak_ about her!"

"Why not?" Brighid says sarcastically, "When she is so clearly on your mind at the best of times?"

"_**Shut up.**__"_

I feel so separate from myself; I feel older. Dangerous. We match each other, ire for ire, glaring each other into the dirt as equal combatants.

But Brighid looks away first- and it is to find Peter. I follow, watching my brother breathe deeply and evenly. Now I am only tired. I long for sleep. I long for my sisters. For the kind servants of the Cair. Even Orieus, who would certainly come in handy right now. If Peter were in my position, he would have already figured out a way to outsmart her, or coerce her. Peter is good with difficult people.

"When dauntless Day is weary, he opens his door to Night," says Brighid, more to her fire than to me. She produces a wrap of fabric and begins to wind it around her bleeding hand. "Night will watch for Day, who will come bruised, heal, and fall that same height. Dauntless Day, who loves his noble Night."

I lean against the rocky wall, unable to resist thinking that the rhythm is off, and a sharp memory assails me from somewhere, of a small room and two Animals. Susan; mocking rhyme scheme. Me; murdering them all. My disgust must show on my face, because the Hag reads it and thinks it means something else.

"I'm sure some poet somewhere is wounded, brat, but it certainly isn't me." She's _laughing_- or as close to laughter as a Hag can get. It isn't very loud. It actually sounds like she's choking on dry bread. I never would have thought I could make a Fell beast laugh. Not in a completely unsadistic way. "It is an old song from below the Southern Mountains."

"We have a sister." My words catapult out. They fill the cave, bring Peter closer, bring Brighid down, level me out. I can feel her eyes fall on me. "Two sisters, actually. One of them is very sick. All of Narnia is falling to this same disease. I brings on fevers, nightmares, paralysis... Eventually it kills. Peter and I- we came to find the cure."

She takes the small peace offering, surprisingly cordial, "What cure?"

"The Archenlanders called it Winter's Teeth."

"I haven't heard of it." But she is irritated that I mentioned it.

My heart drops, but I press on, "It's an old name. From before the Winter."

"I am much older than the Winter," Brighid says. The finality is thundering. "I haven't heard of it. It sounds like a myth."

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**A/N:**

**(1) Pronounced "Bree-ed" Modern day "Brigid" or "Bridget"**

**When I say "dead" I mean _dead_. Peter had been _dead_. Your eyes aren't playing tricks on you: they're foreshadowing a revelation.**

**Edmund's memory isn't the best right now- but that isn't just due to a concussion. Keep an eye on memories in this story.**

**Also, mothers are very important.**

**Also, also: I know Brighid comes across kinda bipolar. This is how it should be. I'm mixing a lot of mythology through Brighid, so don't worry if her mood swings are giving you whiplash. Only a boggled Edmund seems to keep up with her anyway.**

**More to come- Good luck to everyone else about to dive into exams!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	10. black: The Protectors Yarn

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Ten: The Protectors Yarn**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Do I have to?**

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_"No harm befalls the righteous, but the wicked have their fill of trouble," Proverbs 12:21_

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**But the King would not consent to the union.**

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**Then:**

_"We have a sister." My words catapult out. They fill the cave, bring Peter closer, bring Brighid down, level me out. I can feel her eyes fall on me. "Two sisters, actually. One of them is very sick. All of Narnia is falling to this same disease. It brings on fevers, nightmares, paralysis... Eventually it kills. Peter and I- we came to find the cure."_

_She takes the small peace offering, surprisingly cordial, "What cure?"_

_"The Archenlanders called it Winter's Teeth."_

_"I haven't heard of it." But she is irritated that I mentioned it._

_My heart drops, but I press on, "It's an old name. From before the Winter."_

_"I am much older than the Winter," Brighid says. The finality is thundering. "I haven't heard of it. It sounds like a myth."_

**The Nest, Year 1000: ? Days after the High King's Departure **

For the next day or so, rather than incite another brutal attack from the Nest, I bite my tongue and retreat back to Peter's side.

There's not much to do there. His wound is wrapped and clean. His breathing is fine. His color is good. All I can really do is stare at his face while he sleeps, and that becomes boring rather quickly. If I had a grease pen, I might draw on his face. Short of these, I compromise, finding twigs and leaves from the ground around us, poking them into Peter's hair, and resting a twirled leaf-stem beneath his nose like a moustache.

_You look ridiculous, _I think, pleased with my handiwork. _Facial hair really doesn't suit you._

Peter's nose twitches. His brow contracts. The furs covering his right arm rise a little, like he's trying to move his arm, but then his face turns a startling white, going lax.

I hurriedly brush the mess from his face, pull back an eyelid to find white, a hint of blue chasing into his head. I let him go and pull down the furs, peeling back the fabric that is bound to his shoulder. The flesh is more brown than black now, yellowing. Parts of the skin farther out are purpled and red like a bad bruise. I can't help it- I gag.

"Is that where-?"

"You shouldn't be taking that off, yet," Brighid says. She's carving a long bow by the fire, which she never seems to leave. "Infection could set in from the air."

I go to cover it, but her voice stops me again.

"Leave it. It's time to change it anyway."

She joins me, reaching around me to peel the fabric the rest of the way off.

"The arrow was missing when I found you in the net. Either the force of you two landing jarred it enough to send it into the ravine, or you pulled it out yourself."

I shake my head; I don't remember that, and it doesn't seem likely that I would have the stomach to do it.

Brighid takes a new wad of cloth from her kit-bag, along with a jar not unlike the Hawthorn she tossed me earlier. Covering the opening with the wad, she tips the whole thing over, the liquid sloshing, and rights it again. The wetted fabric is pressed against Peter's shoulder. He hisses, muscles in his jaw jumping and cords in his neck popping out.

"This poison targets the heart, makes them weaker, even if by some _miracle _they manage to survive. There's heavy magic involved."

It just figures that Peter would rough-out something like that. I feel a swell in my stomach. As long as I can keep things civil, I might be able to glean more answers.

"We were attacked by Wolves. They came in the night, surrounded us. There wasn't a moon to see by. Peter and I escaped on Philip-"

"-Philip?"

"My Horse-" My Horse! Why hadn't I remembered him? The whole Guard is probably going mad, looking for us.

_Looking for us. _

A wave of understanding fills me up from my toes to my head, making the ache there vanish, the soreness of my body a thing of the distant past. For the first time that I can remember in this terrible, tiny cave, I feel completely safe. The Guard- Peter's and mine: trained by Orieus himself, good senses, good _sense_- of course we'll be found! The wait might not even be that long. I can half-hear the thundering of their feet now, like a summer storm, full of heat and flashing energy. The Guard that Brighid still doesn't know about. Hags may have the upper hand on a boy like me, but against trained Narnian soldiers, she was toast.

This knowledge makes me giddy with confidence. I have to force myself to continue without giving myself away.

"We- We were riding when I think Peter got hit- he just passed out. And then..."

And then the sense. The tug to the right. The sting on my cheek. The fall into nothingness.

"... I think I was the one to take us over the cliff side." I reach up, feel a raised line against my cheekbone. "I think... I was grazed by one of those arrows."

"Well, if you were, it wasn't a poisoned one. Braid these," she tosses me some shapeless rags, and goes on, "I barely had to do anything for you, Son of Adam. You were already wearing a well-padded turban when I found you in that net."

"I'd hit my head before leaving home. I passed out. Hit a tree root."

It's getting easier for me to remember events. They come at my beckoning so effortlessly, I hardly need to claw at them to keep them in place. It's- what's the word? An _exponential_ improvement. Ha!

Brighid harrumphs, supremely unimpressed. "Two knocks in such a short time. It's no wonder you didn't know your own name."

I can't stop the surly tone from carrying out my thoughts, "I _know _my name."

"You didn't know anything. You were talking to imaginary people, in some imaginary land called Inklind."

"Hmm." I fiddled with the cloths in my hands for a second. "Er-"

"Don't tell me you forgot how to _braid_, too, Son of Adam."

"I don't think I've ever known," I sniff, surrendering them up to her snatching claws and settling back to watch. Deftly, her hands fly over one another, a long rope forming like magic between them. "When will Peter wake up?"

A black eye flicks upwards to trace my brother's face, and returns to her ever-growing rope. "Hard to tell."

"How come?"

"For one, he's already supposed to be dead."

My heart stalls. "No. He's not."

"Actually, yes. He is. He was shot by an arrow coated in the deadliest poison I've studied, in a blood vessel that leads directly to the brain in a matter of seconds, drank the same poison for maybe a day before that, and fell over the side of a cliff after that."

I struggle to understand, "So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying a _Giant _couldn't withstand the sort of assassination attempt that he did," Brighid says exasperatedly.

"He's Peter."

"And, for you, that's a good enough answer?"

"The only one that really makes sense."

She laughs again- a dry choking sound like a waterfall of wooden beads.

I sit up a little as old memory returns, "I was told once that Peter is the center of our family. He's important. When I was brought back to the camps, Aslan told me-"

_FWOOSH._

The fire roars up, a smoky purple, and crashes against the ceiling, making me jump back.

Brighid is dangerously still, and her deft hands have frozen over Peter's chest, her talons extended from rigid fingers. She eyes me beadily beneath her matted grey hair. In her anger, her beak has flushed a bloody, warning red.

The familiarity I have with this picture before me settles me. I wait quietly, heart hammering in my throat, until she chooses to remember the half of her that is not a bird of prey, the half that can form thought and rationalize. Sometimes, I know, a Hag does not choose this side.

But Brighid eventually does:

"...As a general rule, Son of Adam. I won't mention Jadis, if you promise to never say _that name_... again."

"I thought you hated... _her_."

"I do. Don't speak of _him_."

I wonder, but say nothing, watching the beetle-black eyes lose their glint and turn to her hands.

She covers Peter's rewrapped chest and quickly places herself back at the fireside, viciously carving into her new bow with the whittling knife. As little as I know about woodworking, it's fairly obvious that there won't be any bow left in a bit.

"Why did you help us?" I ask eventually.

"I had little choice. In Fell Land, where Her lot roam, and I find two boys, Kings, no less, of Narnia. I could have killed you, kept the Wolves from my blood, but that would call down the anger of Cair Paravel, would it not?" She shakes her head, like the tearing shake wolves give to rip out a throat. Slices her knife through wood like margarine. "And if I had packed you up in my wagon to take you East, the Fell would have torn us to pieces. The safest path was this one. Heal you in secret, send you off, and neither Narnia nor Fell will be after me for putting my nets in the wrong gorge."

After this, she refuses to speak again. I take my place by Peter side and watch his chest bellow up and bellow down beneath braided bandages and Hawthorn.

I know Aslan can hear me, when I thank Him for letting us be captured. I hope He hears when I pray for Narnia to be freed of this illness.

**OooOooOooOooO**

Now, King Edmund was right when he said that the whole Guard was going mad. But is wasn't necessarily because they were looking for the Kings. It wasn't even, necessarily, a noisy or energetic event. On the contrary, they were going _quietly _mad. Because you see, dear reader, after a long journey of carrying their injured (a whiney Foible) and dead (the poor Twins and Picha the She-Cheetah), narrowly avoiding pockets of Fell Camps (there were at least five), and going without food some days (and some days with food that barely passed as food), they had reached the Grand and Beautiful Cair Paravel only to find that Philip and the Kings had not returned.

It was a terrible moment of realization. The young Robin was aghast at what he had created.

"I apologize, I had not meant to cause distress-!" he began, fluttering anxiously.

"Distress will come after the numb," Telnir promised, absently scratching his Faun horns with a bruised hand. Robin, still fluttering, and now on the verge of tears at the terribleness of the whole affair, flew off through a window to warble his sadness in isolation.

No one else moved or spoke. Everyone was wondering with heavy dread, "Who will tell the Queens?" They waited in the middle of the barracks, halfway through taking off their sweaty armor, and took in the cheery refuge that they had so longed for. The warm, stern beds where they'd spent many nights dreaming of being taken on as a Guard during the Winter. The plates of cooked food resting on rude but well-loved tables. The safety- Oh, the safety!

But-

"Our Kings are in danger," Argo rumbled. Though he sported a heavy gouge to his rear flank, he stood tall and fearsome in the little gathering of soldiers. He had, after all, somewhat of seniority in the group. "We must return immediately to aid them."

Several of the Guard began to nod- it was rote. Obvious what they had to do, really.

But-

"Return _where?"_ Damask asked. The leopardess was missing an entire ear. She did not speak to slur the idea of rescuing her Kings. She was merely making sure that she hadn't missed that important point in the middle of things. Nevertheless, she poised a fine question. As one, the Guard looked around the circle, meeting everyone else's eyes in hope of finding the answer there.

"Ah," said Megg. He didn't know what else to say. Except for, "What will we tell the Queens?"

"The truth!" Damask said instantly.

"Yes, but _how_ will we tell it to them?"

"More of a when, actually," Telnir muttered, and jumped to attention.

The rest of the Guard spun, following his action, to find Queen Susan filling the doorway with her long and loose hair.

The young girl was instantly bombarded by bowing, kneeling, apologizing, and chattering Narnians, every one of them insisting that they would do their very best to reclaim their Kings if she would grant them mercy and such for failing.

"Goodness!" Susan exclaimed, taking them all in with round eyes. In this day and age, Susan was a very soft-hearted girl, so to see the Guard so very sorry and upset made her feel upset for them. Anyone who knew Susan knew that she didn't have it in her heart to be angry with them. All the same, she was very worried about her brothers. "Argo- What happened?"

"My Queen, we were attacked by Fell Wolves. In the fight, I, in my foolishness, sent the Kings on Phillip's back from the fray. I had thought I was sending them to safety." He thought he might add how the Kings were injured when he did so, but Queen Susan's face was already so white that he held his tongue and waited.

With pressed lips, Susan nodded and straightened her back. "Well, I can't say that I'm surprised."

Flinching, the Guard sagged.

"Lucy had a dream that this would happen," Susan continued then, making them blink with surprise. "Oh- She's feeling much better, by the way. We found- Well, I suppose I had better tell you in a safer location. Well," she said again, squinting at them, "Perhaps that had better wait. But Lucy has dreamed of Edmund and Peter every night since King Edmund left. I can tell you what's been happening, if you like."

Breathless, the Guard nodded, and Susan sat them down on the stern bunks and stood in the middle so that they could all see her, telling in a soft voice all that Peter and Edmund had done in the days that they had been gone. There were a few surprising adventures, some that this reader has not encountered yet, for the time it took the Guard to reach the Cair is farther along in time than Edmund has spent in the Hag's Nest right now. But the best part for the Guard was in hearing of the moment that High King Peter woke up, and the author has saved that moment for next time.

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**A/N: So yes, Peter finally wakes up. In real time, he's been asleep for months now. Our very own Sleeping Beauty. **

**And Lucy's up and at 'em! More than that, she and Susan seem to be taking this whole Dream thing in stride. **

**Thanks to everyone who's kept up with this story! Aslan's Blessings, my friends.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	11. black: A Sudden Turn, Twist, and Dash

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Eleven: A Sudden Turn, Twist, and Dash**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: You'd think after doing about fifty of these things they'd get easier...**

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_"Therefore they sought again to take him: but he escaped out of their hand," John 10:39_

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**So Idunn made to smile sweetly at the King. She promised that as long as Idunn was the Queen of Narnia, his wife would never fall to Sir Death. **

**But woe to the Queen of Archenland! This curse would surely haunt her for decades to come, for at the very moment that Idunn spoke, a great wailing filled the sky of Archenland, and their kind and beautiful Queen was **_**transformed**_**.**

**Then:**

_Breathless, the Guard nodded, and Susan sat them down on the stern bunks and stood in the middle so that they could all see her, telling in a soft voice all that Peter and Edmund had done in the days that they had been gone. There were a few surprising adventures, some that this reader has not encountered yet, for the time it took the Guard to reach the Cair is farther along in time than Edmund has spent in the Hag's Nest right now. But the best part for the Guard was in hearing of the moment that High King Peter woke up, and the author has saved that moment for next time._

**The Nest, Year 1000: ? Days after the High King's Departure**

"_Ow," _says Peter.

It is the first conscious thing that he has said since the ambush on our camp, however many days ago that was. I jump up from the fire and cross the cave to drop down at his side, hardly believing when the High King's blue eyes crack open and blearily squint at me from out of a pale and sweaty face.

"Good morning, your Majesty," I grin, pushing aside his bangs to check for fever and pulling down the furs to check his bandage- both steady and good. "'s about time you came 'round. Narnia was about to change your title from 'Magnificent' to 'Sleeping Beauty.'"

He doesn't even seem to realize that I'm insulting him in my relief. He stares somewhere beyond me, dried lips working over silence.

"Where..?" Peter's eyes close, sluggishly open, and trail away from my face to observe the cave. He frowns a little. "_Where_?"

"A cave," I tell him. "A Nest. Peter, a Hag found us- She's not here right now!" I say quickly, pushing a hand against his chest as he makes as if to rise. Startlingly, it does not take much more to keep him down. I quickly pull away again and barrel onwards. "She's a little batty, Peter. But he's says she's going to send us home after you're all healed. She saved your life."

I say it soothingly, as if I trust her, but I don't. Not completely. For all her words, she is a Fell, and I am under no illusion that we are meant to be trapped here until she so chooses. So far, Brighid has said she will send us home when Peter is healed. But Peter is so... Well, I just have to keep him calm until I figure out what to do. Or until help finds us.

Peter rocks his head so that he's looking up at me. I cannot read his expression. In truth, I hardly want to, because even though Peter is my brother, there are times when I find it very difficult to meet his brilliant eyes.

"What?" I ask. "What is it?"

"The wagon..." he begins slowly, the words wheezing a little as they leave his chest.

I shake my head, "I don't remember the wagon. Brighid just went to collect it, actually. She says there's a load of expensive herbs in there."

Peter shakes his head back, and turns away with a tired sigh. "Aslan was right about you."

**OooOooOooOooO**

I watch him for a time, sitting with my legs crossed by his side and staring at the back of his damp head until his breathing shifts into a slower and dragging measure of air. I pull the furs over his shoulders and pause, fingers wrapped in the smooth and silky hairs of the cover. A memory dances around the very edges of my mind, a sense of déjà vu, but it will not approach me, standing behind my vision as long as I touch the fur blanket. Something, an event made out of movement, fear, and saccharine stone cementing my mouth shut. Something of cold and new and searching. Something of jealousy.

_Aslan was right about you..._

"My name is Edmund," I try. "I am a King of Narnia. Peter, Susan, and Lucy are my siblings. Philip is my Horse. I grew up-"

My fingers smooth over the fur. "-In-"

There is birdsong outside of the cave. The fire crackles behind me, heating my back. Peter's back is pressed against my knees, warming me. My birthplace will not come to me.

Something closer, then.

"The wagon... Was..." I think, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to see it in my mind. "Big. I guess. It had lots of expensive-"

_-Powders and leaves and unknown liquids mixed into an inconsistent paste, coating me in grime as I slipped and slid around the wooden flooring, groping for a familiar fabric-_

"Son of Adam?"

I look up to find Brighid, just entered from her day's errands. My heart is beating painfully in my chest. Adrenaline racing from a ghostly ride that I can still sense. A vertigo that does not belong in a stationary seat. The Hag carries a canvas bag over her shoulder, leaves and dried flower heads poking out of the flap. Her beetle black eyes try to pin me.

"Peter woke up," I say.

Brighid shrugs the bag off of her shoulder to fall beside the fire and crouches down by it to warm her gnarled hands, "Wonders never cease."

"I told you he wasn't meant to die," I continue, fingers working around in the fur still, pulling at strands until they slip away or rip out into my hand.

"That you did," Brighid agrees, almost gently. "Now come eat. You look famished."

I pull away from my brother and sit across from her, accepting a bowl that she ladles full of the mixture simmering in the cast iron cauldron above the greenish flames. "I forgot to eat today."

"I wondered why it was so full." Brighid scoops some for herself, blowing steam over the lip of the wooden bowl. "Your memory is coming along very slowly, Son of Adam. And you're looking a little peaky."

How can a Fell Beast and I have a system of living, if in fact I cannot recall creating this pattern? If I don't remember when I chose to answer to her? To come at her summons, however gracious?

Time is a very slippery thing for me. I forget whole days at a time, meals, names of people and places, but Peter is always there, and I find that it is always best to start with Peter, who fits so easily into my memory. Now that he is waking up, I hope that he can help to hold me accountable. Peter is not so easily swayed. Peter will know what is going on. Brighid is always amazed to see Peter improving, but I am always amazed that she could think that Peter would do anything else.

How can anything else happen?

"How long have we been here?" I ask her, as I always ask her.

"Eat," she says.

I tip the rough bowl against my lips and sip down a piping-hot swallow of the broth, which is sweet and savory and spicy all at once. It leaves a hot path from my throat down behind my sternum, pooling in my belly and soothing my stomachs unheard cries for attention.

"There you are," the Hag nearly coos. "You must be growing."

"Let's hope so," I manage around a swill of broth. Familiar, familiar, all of this familiar. Dancing behind my mind with predictable form to a driven beat.

"Now, there's been something I've been meaning to ask you, Edmund," Brighid says, toying with her bowl. "About your brother. Would you say he's normal?"

I snort, choking a little on my food. "I could never say _that_."

"But he's _Human_?"

"Of course he is," I say immediately. "The Four Thrones needed two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve." Surely everyone in Narnia knew the prophecy? But even this thought stirs something familiar and dark, and I bend over the bowl to eat more and stop thinking. "'S silly."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Brighid says, continuing after I've swallowed a chunk of meat, "Does he know magic?"

"I doubt it," I reply. "Why are you asking?"

"Don't ask questions," she says, stirring the cauldron. "Are you finished with that bowl?"

I look down to find that I have, in fact, finished the entire bowl. I do not remember doing so.

She holds out another scoop, "Here. Eat. You obviously need it."

I hold out the bowl and she fills it, shooting a dark look at me, "And don't scarf it down. You might burn your tongue."

"What do you care?" I retort, blowing across the surface.

"I'd rather not listen to your whinging all night long about a meal I spent all day preparing. But tell me, being a King of Narnia, there _must _be wards, protections, that your court sorcerers place on your for protection. Against injury or disease or whatnot."

I shake my head. If we had that sort of thing, then we need not worry about the illness ravaging Narnia. "We don't have court sorcerers. We use arms."

I remember Oreius easily. Big, dark, something like a father. Or, at least, I think he's like a father.

"Not even the basics of magic are taught to you?"

"No. But we do get to learn a lot about foreign diplomacy and how to write with a quill without blotting."

Brighid stares at me for a second, then returns to stirring the cauldron pensively.

"You didn't eat yours," I point out helpfully. Her bowl sits beside her in the leaf-strewn floor of the cave, almost completely cooled.

"I'm not very hungry."

"You were gone all day."

She says nothing. An inexplicable chill enters me, and with it a voice breathes against my ear.

_Edmund, you look so cold. Come and sit with me?_

"How long have we been here?" I ask again.

The air reeks of Magic. The flavor sits on my tongue. A familiarity that it's almost comfortable.

I put down my bowl and rise, going to Peter. Gently, in case I wake him, I roll him onto his back and pull at the bandage, revealing the freshly bleeding wound. The Hawthorn paste has done nothing to stop the festering black from returning to the infected skin. In fact, it looks worse than the last time I checked it.

_I can make you anything you like._

"What kind of plant is this, really?" I ask, staring down at the pus and rotting skin.

The fire offers no heat now. If anything, its flames are cold. The only warmth is the fever, radiating from Peter's weary flesh.

Brighid doesn't answer. She watches me by the fire, blood slowly filling her beak so that it carefully changes to a deep red. I cautiously stand, keeping Peter behind me. There is something that not even Peter can do. And I, born out of bloodshed and struggle, have no problem with doing it.

_Edmund... I would very much like to meet the rest of your family._

"I bet you never knew that Jadis pulled the same trick that you just did. A truth spell in my food? And my memories. I bet you've had a hand in that as well."

Her dark eyes focus, the pupils blowing wide, and cocks her bird-like head to one side. Less and less human by the second. More and more a Fell Beast.

"When you said no one could survive the sort of assassination attempt that he did- You knew _exactly _what that meant, didn't you?" I whisper, somehow prepared. The words flow out of me, so simply, even though I hadn't thought I'd been thinking them at all. "You didn't _want _Peter to live. Just me. You just wanted to keep _me_."

"_Just me_," parrots Brighid, beak clicking. "No. _Not _just you. This all goes well beyond you."

"What are you talking about?"

I watch her chest swell as her anatomy becomes more and more like a Bird of prey, her fingers wrenching into talons. She holds my eyes for a moment with her black-hole gaze, then, with avid and carnivorous attention, drops her bugging eyes to my side.

Reflexively, I put my hand to the spot and cold immediately spills from it. I jerk my hand away again, looking down in fright.

The Scar is like ice.

"I hate Her," Brighid crows, "But the Fell need Her."

"Well, too bad about that," I say, "Since I torched her half-eaten corpse."

"She's _right here!" _Brighid exclaims.

She flies at me as my mind cries out, _Aslan! _and my hands catch her by the shoulders as she crashes into me, our eyes locking and time freezing.

Her eyes. I cannot look away from her eyes. There is such a sadness there. Such a longing. I feel dizzy, like I'm falling forwards into them. Just on the brink of never returning back to myself. Somehow her black eyes are holding me still.

_ASLAN WAS RIGHT ABOUT YOU._

And then I fall.

-_I see myself reflected in the darkness there. A pale boy with dark hair and round, worried eyes that seem to glow. I can see myself. And I can see someone else. Tall, intelligent, hauntingly fair and dangerous in her own right. An older version of myself stands at her side, gazing with open adoration. A tear opens in my heart as I watch. An old man with grey hair and a full beard frowns and shakes his head at the pair. She becomes angry, those familiar spots of red flying to her cheeks. In a voice like Winter, she curses me, and I find all my beauty fading, Death halted, power flooding me and a certain thirst for blood drying out my mouth until the maidservant enters with an optimistic tonic and no way of protecting herself from m-_

I blink. Above me, Brighid raises a trembling dagger with a free hand, tears falling from her eyes and-

I fall again into-

-_Blood dripping from her neck, the guards screaming, calling her name but she is gone and-_

_-_she drops it towards my chest but I-

-_the White Witch is calling for her._

-catch her wrist and twist it so harshly that it snaps.

Orieus would be proud. The dagger falls to the cave floor and Brighid lets out a keening wail that fills the night with agony. Blind with pain and lost in a maze of memories not my own, I flail backwards, sensing the Hag advancing, reaching out for anything to grab hold of. The Cave is screaming with her, enraged at what I have done to her, the earth splitting and fissuring beneath me.

A hand grabs me a second before Brighid does, and like she's touched a live wire she lets out a roar of pain and jerks away from me.

Peter, eyes alight and teeth gritted, tightens his hold on my arm and presses the now-burning Coal into my hands as he pushes me to stand, tugging so that I help him to stand, too. With his arm behind my head and my own around his waist, he urges me towards the entrance.

"No- we can't-" I begin, remembering being thrown back like a bug. The impossible, impassible wall of air.

"Trust me!" Peter shouts.

Brighid is still screaming, shouting obscenities and curses at Aslan, at the Cair, at Narnia in general. All rationality has left her. The Cave is wailing like a chorus of demons, the walls closing in on us.

"JADIS!" Brighid howls, the fire shoots up to blast across the ceiling of the cave, purple, black, red. Raging and alive. Stone splits and crumbles, gravel striking our heads, stones hitting our limbs, fragments drawing blood on exposed flesh, powder coating us in the dust of our tomb.

I cry out, ice blooming in my body so that it is stiff and weak and numb. The Coal flares, Peter almost lifts me as he squeezes the burning Coal between our hands and jumps through the barrier. We glide through like we have wings.

A wave of fresh air hits me as we leave the cave, startling my lungs. The icy pain in my middle swallowed by warmth, and I grip Peter and keep going.

We run for ages, tripping on each other, on the ground, the exposed roots of ancient oaks. There is barely a sliver of moon to see by. A supernatural screaming falls from the mountain face, and an answering howling from the deep valley beds. I can hear the constant pulsing of Peter's breathing, and the drumming earth beneath our bare racing feet, but so far there is no crashing or chase through the trees. Brighid has not yet pursued us.

"I don't get it!" I say, swerving around a trunk, "What was that? She goes to all that trouble just to look like she's saving us when all she really wants is you dead? And what was that? Did you _see _that?"

"Don't talk," Peter replies shortly, "Run!"

So we run. I wonder how Peter can stand to move so much, so suddenly. He had said, "Trust me" and I do trust him. But who is _he _trusting? Has Aslan told him what to do? What did I see? Who was that boy that looked so much like me? How did I even see him, or Jadis, or that poor maidservant, as if from a memory? How did we even escape the cave? What happened to the magic that was locking us in?

'_Don't think,' _my brains says, '_Run.'_

We run. And run and run. In that little sliver of a moon, we find more tree roots than any Son of Adam ever wants to find with bare feet, blindly leading each other deeper and deeper into the darkness. Eventually, Peter does pull away from me and falls onto the soft moss beside a tree, coughing and panting. I wish I could check his bandage or know what to even do to help it in the first place. Had I helped poison Peter all this time? And Brighid would have me think I had done all I could to heal him?

I fall beside him. "We have to keep going." We can't have gone farther than a mile from the Nest.

"Can't," rasps Peter, rocking his head on the green. We concentrate on our breathing for some time, and I focus on our surroundings. We've stopped in a sort of cove. At the center of eleven trees, the type of which I cannot discern in the night, all perfectly arranged into a circle. Above us, the stars are spread out like glittering beads of dew on velvet. Beneath us, the ground is a spongy bed of dense moss.

"Where do you think we are?" I whisper to Peter.

"Somewhere safe," he whispers back. With his good arm, he reaches out and tugs me against him.

In our flight from the Nest, we had lost all accommodation of fur blankets and a fire. The coal and my riding cloak is all we have to share. I cover us in the cloak and put the coal beneath Peter's chin, as I had done before, and rest my head on his bare shoulder. Peter's heart is strong. It echoes across my cheek. I can't feel my own heartbeat when listening to his. It washes through me, falls down my arms and legs, hits my toes and bounces back. In his breathing, I can hear the Eastern Sea, the steady crash of sun-drenched water on a pale-skinned limestone wall. Corrosive, shaping, constant. One day that limestone will whittle away to crags and islands and faded fragments. But the Sea will always be there, carried by the power of the Far East, where heaven is.

"So what's the plan?" I ask quietly.

"Sleep," Peter says.

"I'm not tired."

Peter sighs. I can see his breath, like a ghost, animate above us. "Just rest, Edmund. You'll need it for tomorrow."

**OooOooOooOooO**

"Tomorrow" as in _today_ turns out to be what Peter must have _expected to be _a turn for the worst in his already failing health.

I wake up soaked in Peter's sweat, which is disconcerting enough. The Coal steaming in his clenched fist doesn't help sooth me much. The Autumn air has frosted over the moss around us, leaving only a perfect circumventing patch that is bone-dry and almost hot to the touch. Peter has feverishly kicked the cloak off, and his bare torso catches the sunlight in sickly reflection. When I peel off of the bandage on his shoulder, I see that the flesh that had been black last night is missing, and the rest has turned a very angry red.

"Blasted, batty Hag," I mutter, throwing the bandage beyond the Ash trees. It's pleasing to know I'm not completely useless, however, because with the knife I stole from her last night, I can cut a patch of frozen moss to cool Peter's shoulder.

"I wish I could remember what happened to all of our things," I tell Peter. "What would Susan say if she knew you were running around half-naked?"

Clothing, however, isn't the main issue I find myself facing.

"I'm _starving!"_

* * *

**A/N: The inexplicable will be explained. Eventually. Probably around the same time that young Edmund finds himself some food. The hunger he's experiencing is actually an important clue. Stay posted, my friends!**

**Also- who pieced some of the plot out by reading the Bold Backstory at the top of the chapter?**

**Can't wait for clarification? Need to vent? Need to speak your mind? You know what to do.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	12. black: Berries and Bark

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Twelve: Berries and Bark**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: My tears shall have no influence on the matter.**

* * *

_"For if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up," Ecclesiates 4:10_

* * *

**But the King knew not what Idunn had done to the Queen, and late in the night, she summoned the young Jaeden with Magic. And Jaeden went to her and she trained him in her ways, which were bent and evil and led to the downfall of Narnia.**

**Then:**

_"Tomorrow" as in today turns out to be what Peter must have expected to be a turn for the worst in his already failing health._

_I wake up soaked in Peter's sweat, which is disconcerting enough. The Coal steaming in his clenched fist doesn't help sooth me much. The Autumn air has frosted over the moss around us, leaving only a perfect circumventing patch that is bone-dry and almost hot to the touch. Peter has feverishly kicked the cloak off and his bare torso catches the sunlight in sickly reflection. When I peel off of the bandage on his shoulder, I see that the flesh that had been black last night is missing, and the rest has turned a very angry red._

_"Blasted, batty Hag," I mutter, throwing the bandage beyond the Ash trees. It's pleasing to know I'm not completely useless, however, because with the knife I stole from her last night, I can cut a patch of frozen moss to cool Peter's shoulder._

_"I wish I could remember what happened to all of our things," I tell Peter. "What would Susan say if she knew you were running around half-naked?"_

_Clothing, however, isn't the main issue I find myself facing._

_"I'm _starving_!"_

**Now:**

**The Western Wood, Year 1000. ? Days After the High King's Departure**

My stomach growls and growls, like it hasn't eaten in a week, but I want to make sure Peter is safe and partially hidden before I venture into the wood to look for food. There seems to be no other choice.

Using the knife I stole from Brighid, I cut more moss and collect fallen wood, leaves, and twigs, arranging them around Peter so that he is mostly obscured. Putting a folded lump of moss behind his sweaty head, I take the moment of proximity to speak into his ear.

"I'll bring you some breakfast."

He breathes on, chest shifting a small twig with the movement. In that moment, I see a strong likeness of Lucy in his face. Something around his chin and the shape of his eyes. I cover him again and rise with the knife tucked into my belt, stepping behind the trees.

The absence of sunlight does not help the autumn air, with eagerly nips around my tunic collar and wrists. My bare feet go numb in the cold of the ground a few steps into the wood. I notice a few things the farther I go along. Namely, the absence of life. No Birds sing, no Squirrels are in the Trees, and the Trees themselves are acting rather a lot like trees- never moving or looking at me, but towering high and covering the sky from the earth. I dare not speak or call to them, unless there are more disturbing things hiding in the silence.

But still, I recognize this place.

"The Western Wood," I say, vaguely pleased. This is my land. The dark shelter of the trees and whisper of the wind through the bramble is one of my oldest memories. Hopefully, this will encourage the rest of my memories to flood back.

I make my way through the undergrowth, careful not to rely on trees or stones for reference, constantly looking backwards to check the angle of the sun, a bright light somewhere beyond the canopy of green.

"Mushrooms, berries, bark," I say to myself. There is a faint echo of a sunny day and grounds covered in sparring soldiers, of cushions propped on the dense earth and Peter at my side as Orieus waits for us to scribble that down with our messy quills.

'_Mushrooms, berries, and bark,' Orieus said, 'Are a staple diet for many of wild animals, deep in the wooded lands. And healthy. If you find yourself without meat or bread or water: find these. You will soon find the rest.'_

_'What about poisonous mushrooms and berries?' Peter asked seriously. His parchment was nearly black with the amount of notes he was taking. Mine was blank, save for 'M, B, B.' Mushrooms, berries, and bark._

_Orieus looked at Peter with troubled eyes. 'They have these, where you are from, My King?'_

_'Narnia doesn't?' Peter returned with equal surprise._

_'No, King Peter.'_

_'But what about for Sons of Adam?' Peter pressed, rearranging his legs so that he could lean forward. 'Surely there are some things that Animals and animals can eat that we cannot?'_

_'I can see no reason why,' Orieus said. 'For Aslan has deemed all food here good for eating. Why would He contradict this in the case of a Son of Adam?'_

_Peter's eyes seemed far away as he nodded, then bowed his head and began scribbling furiously over some of his notes, adding new ones, flipping the page to cover the back._

_On my notes, I wrote, 'Eat up.'_

I find whole clusters of berries, ripe and purple and a little tough-skinned, but sweet. When I swallow, they leave a trail of warmth from my tongue down into my stomach. I feel heat come to my cheeks and hot blood flush down into my fingertips, warming them against the chill of the morning. I barely notice the cold as I continue along, munching on these berries and filling my pockets with more of them. I see no mushrooms, though, and I suppose that is because the heavy rains we had however long ago were not followed by summertime weather.

I hop a creek, bare foot sinking into the soft dirt of the opposite bank, and push on.

"Not too much farther, Edmund," I breathe. Partly to fill the silence of the wood, partly to focus myself. "We have to get back soon."

It's a pity, because I relish the feel of movement, of stretching my legs and easing the ache of my growling belly, memories coming at a call. The fog in my mind slowly lifting.

"Fine," I reply to myself, a little churlish with my own good sense. "Whatever you say."

"You know that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, right?" I ask.

"Check, check, and check," I say, "Now shut up and let me concentrate."

My pockets are nearly bursting with fruit, and I feel the some juice begin to dribble down my legs from the crush of my movement. Anything else I find will have to be carried by hand, and I'm still hoping for bark of a willow, which I faintly remember Doctor Saleni using for a tea.

"And how exactly are you going to make _tea_ without a pot or kettle?"

"I'll figure it out."

Farther still, and no willows. I feel increasingly wary of leaving Peter behind, certain that some animal or Fell has sniffed him out and tore him to pieces. Each step I take only empowers this horrible thought, and eventually I give up rational thought and spin on the spot to continue back, reaching the Ash clearing far faster than I had thought I would. It had seemed like the distance I had walked from it was terribly far. In reality, I couldn't have even gone a mile away.

I go to Peter, find him much the same as this morning- sweaty and pale and his shoulder is bleeding freely again. I uncover him from the thicket I had buried him in, and rip the edge of my cloak to make a new patch for his wound. I hesitate, and then press down on it.

Peter jerks, I almost let up, but Orieus' voice is in my head again, and I can see my notes where it says in dark, spiky letters, **'**_**Keep pressure until bleeding stops.'**_

I press down, and Peter's eyes begin to crack open. He blinks rapidly, makes a sound like scratchy speech in his throat and swallows heavily.

"Edmund-"

"You're bleeding again," I say. "Keep still."

He had been lifting his head to look, but at my word- or perhaps because he really is this weak- he lets his head fall back against the moss with a soft thump, gazing around the clearing with pale, pained eyes. His heart beats unsteadily under my reddened hands.

"Didn't think I had much blood left," he mutters.

"You don't." He's greyer than a Horror, and about half as lively.

Peter lets out a weak huff. I think it's supposed to be a laugh. He keeps his eyes on me and rests there as I push my weight onto the wound. I am unsure of how I'll know the blood has stopped. Better to keep pressing and look like I know what I'm doing, even though I think I might scream from restraint.

So many questions are boiling around in my head about our escape from last night. I'm certain that Peter is the only person who can answer them. Where his sudden strength came from, how we passed through the barrier, what Aslan had apparently said about me to him and _when_ exactly He had said it? Is there no shortage to the mystery that remains my older brother? First he's dying then he's spry. Once he's spry, and then he's failing again. It makes no sense!

"You were scared," Peter says.

His words lay me bare. It takes me a moment to come back to the present situation. Another before I can work out what he's speaking about, that constant burn of his gaze and my adamant attention to that one red spot, blooming and growing beneath me.

He continues, "If I hadn't left you, you wouldn't have been-"

"-You went to save Lucy." I say loudly. There are some things I don't trust myself to discuss at the moment, and this is one of them. Not with Peter so at my mercy. "And I _wasn't _scared. Can you stop talking?"

Peter rolls his head, sighs. "I wandered off..."

My heart thuds once, hard.

"Well, you came back."

His hand moves. For a moment, I think he's going to reach out and touch me on the arm, but he weakly paws at the spot below his chest that the cloak covers, and fumbles until the Coal comes rolling out and tumbles onto the moss at his side.

It glows faintly, like someone has lit it on fire and it is only now cooling down. I remember it steaming in his fist earlier, and frown.

"Did it burn you?" I remove one hand quickly from the arrow wound, peeling back the cloak, searching for inflamed skin and finding none. "Why is it doing that?" Because the glow is fast diminishing until it's just an unseemly lump of black against the green, cool to the touch. Picking it up, I roll it around close to my face, looking for signs of heat. It feels almost cold, now.

"Useful," Peter rasps, taking a heavy breath like some weight has been lifted from his chest.

I realize that the bandage is mostly stuck to Peter's shoulder; his blood has congealed. I take my hand off and pull the scrap fabric with it, folding it again and laying it over top of the solidifying scab. Clear liquid flows out of it, and I mop it up with moss.

Peter smacks his lips. "Water?"

I shake my head. There is still the creek, but I have nothing to hold the water with. "Berries. Think you can chew?"

"Sure," says Peter tiredly. I pluck one up and squish it a little between my fingers to soften it up before popping it into Peter's mouth.

"Chew."

Peter tries. I have never seen a person try so hard to do something so basic. He struggles for a time, chokes, and then chokes again, and I have to turn him so that he can let it fall out of his mouth. Red juice and saliva covers his mouth and cheeks. Even spitting is too much for him.

"Let's try something else," I say briskly, trying to cover how rattled I feel. I take each berry and squeeze until its juice flows out and drips, drop by drop, into Peter's mouth. At the most, it must leave the same trail of warmth that it left when I ate the berries on my walk. All the berries I found together would not make more than a mouthful of juice. The pulpy skins I pop into my own mouth, unwilling to waste them. I feel despair creep up on me as we reach the final one, and those two drops fall past Peter's dried lips.

I wait for him to swallow, and then cover him to his chin again with the cloak, wiping his face with a corner.

"I'll give you more, later," I tell him, as if I have a choice. "We'll see how you handle it."

"We have to get home," Peter breathes. "Lucy..."

"Susan is caring for Lucy," I remind him. "And I'm taking care of you. That's all that can be done. Now get some sleep."

**OooOooOooOooO**

Peter sleeps for hours. I go back and forth from the Ash clearing and the woods, piling berries and a few shriveled mushrooms that had been hiding on my initial scouting. I even find a willow, a little farther than the creek and slightly eastward, that bows over the waters and holds no Dryad. A simple knocking on the base reveals this.

I shimmy up the branches, relishing the exercise, and sit on a limb over the creek, watching for fish as I scrape bark loose from the underside of the branch and fill my pockets once more. There is still the matter of boiling it, I think sensibly to myself. But there's no use in leaving the resource behind.

I'll take my luck as it comes, I think to myself.

And then it turns quickly sour.

There is a sound like claws on dirt from below and I stop sawing at the bark. Breathing- panting, more like- reaches me and I hold completely still, peering down below the branches with hushed breath.

A grey, shaggy, and muscular form is standing directly beneath me.

A Wolf.

I tell myself that he cannot reach me, even if he was to stand on his hind legs and stretch his long neck after me, but I know this is hardly the issue;

My bare footprint, sunk into the soft bank from my earlier march for berries, sits a foot or so away from him on his other side. I stare the spot down, heart hammering in my throat. All he has to do is turn his great, shaggy head. All he has to do is sniff and he'll find me. Listen and he'll hear my very blood.

I think of Peter, weak and exposed in the clearing, and my heart rate doubles. My mind begins a repetitive cadence of _Aslan, please, please Aslan, please..._

The Wolf lowers his head to the water and snorts. Then sniffs. He stills over the current. I can barely think. I grip the knife in my hand and prepare myself to fight to the death. If he so much as faces the way to our camp, I will leap out of this tree and tear him to shreds. Vaguely, I wonder if this was how 'Aslan was right about me.' My preparation to do anything, in any way possible, if this Fell beast puts Peter in harm's way.

But he doesn't. He stays like that for a full minute, and my body is in agony from staying so still when I so want to move. To fly or to fight.

_Please, sweet Lion_, I beg.

A sudden form bursts out of the water. It gleams a pinkish red, black eyes protruding, gummy lips gasping in the air. The salmon leaps from the creek and slaps himself over my footprint in the mud. I can hardly believe it's even happened.

The Wolf can. He spins and snaps at it, but the salmon is too quick, wriggling himself until he has slid back into the rushing water and out of sight downstream- in the opposite direction of our camp. As the Wolf chases it, barking, I see that his left eye is white- blind- a dotted line of red scabs cutting across it, as if from a spur.

My calf twinges and my throat burns in sympathy as the Wolf vanishes from sight, and I collapse against the branch, pressing my hot forehead against the bark and trying not to faint. When I think I can move without my legs turning to jelly, I cautiously scale back down the tree trunk and pocket the bark. Keeping light, I leap the creek completely so that I don't touch the mud, and rush back in the direction of camp.

It can be no coincidence that the same Wolves that attacked our search party can be here again. They want us dead, there is no doubt in my mind, or worse they want to capture us for someone else.

'Someone like a batty Hag?' my mind wonders. I curse and triple my speed. Can't there be somewhere safe in my own land? If it isn't sickness, it's violence. And if it's neither, it's enchantment and enslavement. Sometimes I hate the West.

I burst through into the clearing.

I thank Aslan that Peter is already sitting up, looking around dazedly, childlike. He spots me and makes a motion, trying to shift his weight to stand.

I almost bowl him over, catching hold of his good arm and heaving him to his feet. He stumbles.

"Ed, what is it?"

"A Wolf, Peter," I say, leaving the berries and fitting the knife into my belt so that I can grab hold of my brother with both hands. "Come on."

The Wolf had run east, after the stream, so I take us further West. As far as Peter can go. The ground becomes gradually rockier, sloping upwards only slightly. Peter is slow, but steady, and his wound does not reopen. He seems stronger than this morning, but with none of the flurry of last night. He says nothing as we walk. I can tell he is concentrating on his feet.

High ground, I think. We need the high ground. I sift through memories, looking for a map to guide me and coming up empty. Did I truly never pay attention during lessons? It's little wonder that Oreius had so little patience with me.

We continue until the ground levels out again an turns a deep green, then Peter pulls on me. I look to see what he wants.

"North," he says. "More north."

North-West. I recall a shadow of fear at that term, but bury it under cool reason. Peter has not led me astray yet.

We turn North.

And my foot falls into deep water.

I yelp, stumble, barely catching hold of Peter. I reel us back to fall on the bank. My trouser leg is soaked up to my hip.

"What in Aslan's name-?"

Peter makes that weak laughing sound again, more of a cough or a gasp. He raises his good hand to mess up my hair.

"Found it," he says happily. In my confusion, I turn and look out over the green that I had thought was grass, realizing the rippling is not of wind through stalks, but air over water. The deep, dark water that spills downhill, thinning out into a river downstream. Somewhere farther West, I can hear the boisterous thundering of the Great Falls.

We've arrived at the Cauldron Pool.

* * *

**A/N: Things to keep in mind- the direction of water flow in Narnia, the wolf with the blinded eye, and that tricky little salmon. I can hardly wait to start introducing some characters to you all.**

**Also: Does anyone realize who the young Jaeden is yet?**

**My love to you all! Happy reading!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	13. black: What Jadis Cannot Have

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Thirteen: What Jadis Cannot Have**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I haven't even **_**read **_**all of Jack's writings.**

* * *

_"For whom the Lord loves He corrects, just as a father the son in whom he delights," Proverbs 3:12_

* * *

**In her slyness, Idunn gave the King a small herb- a flower called the Winter's Teeth, and told him it would drive away Sir Death. The King took the plant and put it in his satchel, eager to return to his wife before the tenth night. **

**But in his haste, the King did not see Jaeden slip away with the Enchantress. And so the Prince of Archenland was forever lost, with no account to explain his fate but for the whispers of magic beasts beyond the northern mountains.**

**Then:**

_We turn North. _

_And my foot falls into deep water._

_I yelp, stumble, barely catching hold of Peter. I reel us back to fall on the bank. My trouser leg is soaked up to my hip. _

_"What in Aslan's name-?"_

_Peter makes that weak laughing sound again, more of a cough or a gasp. He raises his good hand to mess up my hair._

_"Found it," he says happily. In my confusion, I turn and look out over the green that I had thought was grass, realizing the rippling is not of wind through stalks, but air over water. The deep, dark water that spills downhill, thinning out into a river downstream. Somewhere farther West, I can hear the boisterous thundering of the Great Falls. _

_We've arrived at the Cauldron Pool._

**Now: **

**The Cauldron Pool, Year 1000. ? Days After the High King's Departure**

"What now?" I asked.

"We wait," Peter replied. That was all.

It took most of the rest of the morning to find a proper shelter hidden behind the tumultuous tumble of water, set up a place to sleep with leaves and moss and our single cloak, and recover berries (red this time) from the surrounding area. In that time, the sun has risen over an overcast sky, doing little to warm but plenty to light. There is nothing left now but to wait, and I'm not even sure what Peter brought us here to wait _for_.

"Gas-tro-vascular," Peter sounds out slowly.

I am lying on my stomach and resting my chin on my folded hands, staring out over the foggy cover of the Pool, only half listening to what he's saying. If, indeed, he's actually saying anything.

"Gas-tro-vascular," repeats Peter.

"Borborygmus," I reply distractedly. I wonder how deep the water goes. If it has fish like the creek. My stomach has started growling again, despite the berries and mushrooms that abound here. I feel like I could kill for some meat. In all likelihood, I probably will.

"Panjandrum."

I stare at the deep green of the water. "Smaragdine."

"Piffle," says Peter.

"No really- Smaragdine. It's a color."

"What? No- Piffle. That's my word."

"Oh." I roll over so that I'm sitting up over him, tossing my mind around in search of old lessons with stern-looking men with tasseled hats and switches in their withered hands. "Er- Insalubrious?"

"Deplorable."

That word tastes dry and dead and makes me hungry again for anything but sticky sweet berries. I make a face.

"Different game, please."

Peter sighs, "Why don't you go for a swim?"

Well, mainly because I _can't_ swim. But also because, "It's freezing out here. If I get wet I might get sick." And honestly, we can't risk that with Peter's current condition.

"You'd dry off quickly enough."

Peter means; it's difficult to stay wet at the Cauldron Pool when you have a magic Coal.

We should be soaked by now, but the Coal seems to keep us dry. The water fairly boils- but it's not hot. It's more, _alive_, almost. The Great Falls crashes across the surface from the Western Wild, stirring the water, to be sure, and spraying us continually in a fine mist. But farther in, near the deep, the water _leaps_. Watch it long enough and you could swear that the water itself was a Creature of Narnia. Not a Naiad, for Narnia knows very well of those. Something close to a Naiad, though. A distant relation, perhaps. Lucy would know what to call it.

"Magic," Peter says.

"I know."

"No," he turns his head over to look at me. The two of us are listening to the dancing waters while our bare feet cool in the rippling surface. The water feels like it has soothing properties. It would explain Peter's current burst of energy. He gestures to the Coal that is resting between us, just as it did last night in the cold of the Wood. "The Coal is magic."

"I _know_," I say. "Did you see the sky? It's blue today."

"It woke me up," Peter insists. He plucks it from the ground and brings it above him, rolling it around in the sunlight so that it catches white gleams around its polished black surface. "Just before you came."

"Like in the Nest?" I ask. He turns to look at me, Coal falling back to his side, muscles still tired. I tear up some grass and peel it into strips, throwing them back at the water, where they dance and float leisurely for a time.

"It turns hot in my hand," Peter replies softly. "Everything falls away. I hear a small voice."

"A voice?"

"Whispering. It's always urgent. It always tells me what to do, where to go."

_First sign of madness..._ I think. But then, I've heard that quiet, urgent Guide before as well.

"I think it's Aslan," Peter finishes, and pushes the Coal into my hand. "He told me to come here, so there must be some purpose."

Black smudges coat both our palms by now. I sigh, inspecting it again to appease him.

It has more luster than bituminous coal, which means it's of higher grade- highly pressurized. But more even luster than any coal I can remember seeing. This is the only clue that it's special. It would probably take a Black Dwarf to learn more about it, but I don't feel quite that desperate.

"I don't know why Aslan doesn't just show up roaring and carry us home," I say, handing it back so that Peter can be kept warm. "It looks completely ordinary,"

"Well, so do you."

"_Piffle,"_ I say tersely, inwardly delighted that he smiles.

Peter asks, "Where did you get it?"

_-In a barren wood of death and disease and pestilence in numbers far greater than our own, where their Queen was sewn from ice and crystal and sang a song of blood-thirst like no other. There, in their midst, as their pet, he came to me, beaten and tied and starved for the knowledge of the outcome of a fatal, fickle child's choice-_

I whip a bare stone out from the shore, watching the way it smacks against the water and pushes onwards, jumping, falling, and drowning. The ripples are lost in the continuous motion of the Pool.

"Father Christmas," I confess, because Peter, of all people, deserves to know. Needs to know. "He found me at Her camp."

Peter watches the sky. I watch Peter.

"Put the guards to sleep, somehow. Magic, probably. Like back... Back there. Home."

"England," Peter supplies. A wave of dizziness flies through me. I close my eyes. England. That's the name of my homeland. It slips into place, holds true. Something stabilizes in that one word: _England_. "Mum used to say Father Christmas wouldn't come unless we were asleep. Maybe it's really him doing it- making the people sleep to give them gifts. I didn't know you'd gotten one."

"What else did Mum say?" I whisper. A mum. I had forgotten about mums. And we had one... Why weren't we with her? What happened to her? How did we lose her?

"She told me to look after you three," Peter says quietly, his eyes reflected in the sky. "And I promised I would."

"You do," I say firmly, almost angrily. There is a subtle tone sitting morosely in Peter's voice, and it is insulting my brother from the inside out. I abhor it. "You _always _do."

Peter says, "Speaking of Gifts from Father Christmas, I wonder what happened to Rhindon."

He's wriggling out of answering me, I'm no fool, but I never before would have noticed the weary tension lining his face, and in seeing it, I feel something owed to him. I let him avoid me.

"Well, don't ask me; I don't remember anything after going over the gorge."

"Hmmm," says Peter. "I bet anything the Hag has it."

It strikes me that I should have thought of it first: The Hag. Of _course. _It sounds exactly like something Batty Brighid would do. Who else had been near when we'd fallen over into the Talley Rope? How long had we dangled there until she'd found us? But still, I can't recall...

"I didn't _see _any swords lying around in the Nest."

"Looks like I'm getting coal myself for Christmas this year," Peter remarks. I can tell he means it as a joke, but still. It stings, too soon applied. He didn't have to say anything. He could have said something else. I say nothing, instead of responding from pain. I chuck another stone into the boiling waters.

I don't really want to talk with my brother anymore. I wish I could hide from him. But there is nowhere to hide, because he needs me, and I owe him everything, and he's all I have.

"Do you hear that?" Peter asks suddenly, drawing me out of myself with a word.

I strain my ears over the crash of water, but hear nothing.

"There it is again," he says. He is clearly growing concerned. "It sounds like... Like bawling."

"I can't hear it."

Peter stays quiet for a while, as tense as he can manage for as long as he can manage. By the time he's given up trying to hear the mysterious bawling, he's lost a little color and more than a little breath. I help him sit up, pocket the Coal, and draw him up so that he's standing.

"Enough of this," I say. "You've had enough."

He leans heavily against me, his partial weigh almost crushing, his breath cold on my cheek, and his complete docility disturbing.

**OooOooOooOooO**

**Then:  
**

**The Witch's Camp: Christmas Night, Year 100 of the Always Winter.**

_I roused at the alarming sound of silence._

_The tree is hard against my back, knotted and bruising. The cries and croaks, hissing and hacking, pounding and slamming of Fell Beasts and their weaponry had ceased. The grey woods and barren earth keeping the tone of death, or at least Death's sister, Slumber._

_My guards were breathing. The Ogre's eyelids flickered as he dreamed against the trunk of the tree I was tied to. Ginnabrik was a curled up ball on the ground, his curved knife nestled against his cheek like a doll. I wished I could kick him, but he was out of range of my legs, and they were already mangled enough._

_"Son of Aaaaadam..."_

_A tall figure rose from the smoke and smog of Jadis' camp, twin horns sloping back over bowled shoulders, a long beard falling across a red skinned-chest, a longer tongue, split and flickering in the air, strangled my alignment, choked my replying yelp of fear dead._

_The Krampus approached on hoofed legs, like the Faun- Tumnus. Less of a friend and somewhat more righteous than a fiend, his long lizard tail dragged through the grey dirt and ash behind him._

_In his twisted fingers, he held a whip of fire._

_"I have waited... one _huuuuundred _years to be released," he hissed, snapping the whip through the air. It made absolutely no sound. Or, at least, I thought it didn't. The resulting sound took three seconds to reach me, nearly bursting my eardrums with the decibel of sound, like clap of thunder a thousand fold louder. I whimpered through my gag._

_"Aaaaalways Winter. Neeeeever Christmas..."_

_He snapped the whip again. Five seconds. Ten thousand fold louder than thunder. I could barely hear his next words, disoriented, losing balance quickly even though I was securely propped up._

_'He can't kill me,' I thought miserably, 'Jadis wants to kill me. She won't let him kill me.'_

_"And you are the oooonly Bad Child in aaaaaaall of Narnia."_

_He raised the whip so that it was clearly angled to strike me, and I wondered what would happen if it did- if I would burn away to ash, if I could be caught in a fire hot enough to burn down all of Jadis' camp while the Fell slumbered. I closed my eyes and prayed so. Her army was strong. So strong and so ready for goring._

_But, as you might have guessed, the fiery whip never touched me. _

_Instead there was the sound of a tussle, and I opened my eyes again to find an old man with a frizzled beard and a wide girth wrestling with the Krampus, prying the whip out of his hands and beating him down to the ground- quietly, efficiently. The Krampus hissed miserably, tied up like a hog with his own weapon, and while he sputtered and squirmed against the ash of the ground, the old man stood, dusted his hands, and turned to find me in the gloom._

_"Edmund Pevensie," he greeted. He reached down and undid my gag. I coughed and touched my split lip with a dry tongue, the blood soon wetting my mouth._

_"Who-?" I rasped._

_"It's Christmas, Edmund," the old man smiled, a merry twinkle in his eyes. _

_I blinked. "Father... Christmas?"_

_"You seem to be in a right spot of trouble, young Edmund," Father Christmas said seriously._

_I laughed, exhausted and amused. "You can't be here." It was a lounge for the twisted, not the good._

_"Guards and traps make little difference to me." The merry man lifted a large sack that I had initially overlooked from his back and set it on the ground, causing dust and ash to fly up at once. "And Jadis matters not at all."_

_He opened the sack, and rustled around inside of it. I thought I heard a horse neigh from within, but I could not be certain of anything I heard right then, the ringing of the Krampus' whip still rebounding in my skull. At long last, Father Christmas pulled his hand out of the sack with some small object held in his closed hand._

_I watched him incredulously. "Don't _give _me anything. Just rescue me."_

_"I cannot aid your escape from this place," he said gently. "But you must have hope."_

_"I don't need to escape," I said tiredly. How could I, with legs like mine? "I just want- Is there a painless way to-?"_

_His blue eyes reminded me of Peter and Susan and Lucy, all three staring out at me. All three so grave and disappointed. Was there nothing new for me? No end? Would I be Her plaything until the stars rained down from the heavens?_

_Father Christmas spoke, his bearing full of gravity._

_"There is no better time than this. Close your eyes, Adam's Son."_

_I gave him a suspicious look, drawing inwards in my bindings. Could it be? _

_With serious and old eyes, the man looked down at me and frowned. "Have hope, Edmund Pevensie. When you have nothing else, I pray you have hope. It is the only thing Jadis cannot steal away from you."_

_"What she cannot have, she kills," I said. I had seen such things, she had _shown me _such things as whole worlds swallowed in a word, a universe of fabric shredded by acting thoughts. Brittle worlds in scrambling hands, terrible victory in the sacrifice of millions. Burbling brooks filled with ice, fluid flesh with stultifying stone. _

_"What she cannot kill, will not have her." His voice was a gentle as hers, like blissful snowfall. Numbing. I longed to believe him._

_We looked at each other in the darkness. Again, he said, "Close your eyes."_

_I closed my eyes._

_And awoke to the startling sound of sick celebration._

_Ginnabrik stood in front of me in the daylight, noise all-around of iron works and the shrieks and screams of Fell beasts preparing for battle. The Dwarf sneered at me. I glared at him, silenced by the rotten fabric tied between my teeth._

_"Did you enjoy your beauty sleep, Sire?" he antagonized, enjoying the fear he can instill in a being larger than he. "Lots of pretty dreams?" He swiped a muff of hair over my face. _

_Lots and lots. Dreams of meeting Slumber's brother like an old friend. Such wonderful dreams..._

_"But what is this?" he wondered, poking at a lump in my stocking with the butt of his whip. I looked down and noticed a large set of footprints in the dust beside his. Unnaturally large, for a Dwarf... More of a man's._

_He poked the lump again, reached out to touch it-_

_-And screamed in pain._

_The sound surprised me, woke me up far more than any beating or splash of half-frozen water over my bare head, for I had never heard him make such a sound. It was electrifying. He jerked away as if he'd touched a live wire, cursing me, cursing Aslan, and I suddenly felt a strange connection, an affinity for this great Cat that seemed to be so opposed of Ginnabrik. Warmth grew from the lump in my stocking. Radiating warmth that flooded me, banished the cool of the camp and the aches from my bruises. _

_For the first time in days, I smiled._

_Ginnabrik fell on me again, beating me senselessly. He tried to take the lump out of my stocking, but could not. He had the Ogre help, but one touch on my person and they both were swearing dangerously. They beat and beat at my legs. I heard several crunches, snaps, and felt fast-cooling liquid spill from my calves onto the dry and barren dirt, but I was beginning to realize. I was beginning to laugh, fading from pain and rising out of something new and terrific and dangerous-_

_They couldn't stop me. They couldn't lay hands on me- any part of me, reduced to attacking from afar with clubs and sticks and Ginnabrik's whip, but they couldn't do that for long either, lest Jadis should hear they'd killed me. _

_They were trapped by their fear of the unknown; I was freed by it._

* * *

**AN: **

**Can you believe this updating rate? I certainly can't...  
**

**The Krampus is from German mythology, the origin of the coal tradition. In Germany, the Krampus is kept on a leash when St. Nick comes around to give presents. If you've been bad, he lets the Krampus off of the leash. Naturally, some English parents found this fear a little too potent, transfiguring it into a lump of coal, representing the Devil and Hell and a reminder of where you'll go if you don't shape up. Hearing about this myth made me think immediately of Edmund: Rhindon may do very well against corporeal antagonists, but warmth seemed a better weapon against tricks and chills.**

**Big time applause to the clever detectives who remember meeting Jaeden (or at least his body) in P.E. And also my love to those who so easily pieced out the true identities of Idunn and the Queen, as far as they are called in Narnia. **

**Hope you all have a fantastic week!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123  
**


	14. black: Moose Don't Climb Magnolias

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Fourteen: Moose Don't Climb Magnolias**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I don't own a medical degree, an apothecary license, or Narnia. To say otherwise is to commit fraud. Please don't get me arrested by thinking otherwise.  
**

**WARNINGS: Some major fantasy gore. And by fantasy, I mean I'm not a surgeon. Lo siento.  
**

* * *

_"From the end of the earth I will cry to You, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I," Psalms 61:2_

* * *

**Then:**

_Ginnabrik fell on me again, beating me senselessly. He tried to take the lump out of my stocking, but could not. He had the Ogre help, but one touch on my person and they both were swearing dangerously. They beat and beat at my legs. I heard several crunches, snaps, and felt fast-cooling liquid spill from my calves onto the dry and barren dirt, but I was beginning to realize. I was beginning to laugh, fading from pain and rising out of something new and terrific and dangerous-_

_They couldn't stop me. They couldn't lay hands on me- any part of me, reduced to attacking from afar with clubs and sticks and Ginnabrik's whip, but they couldn't do that for long either, lest Jadis should hear they'd killed me. _

_They were trapped by their fear of the unknown; I was freed by it._

**Now:**

**The Cauldron Pool, Year 1000. ? Days After the High King's Departure**

Peter was right: It sounds exactly like bawling.

It had stopped for a time after we had gone back to the cave to rest, but returned with the night. Hours later, it still sounds miserable, and the sun is set to rise soon.

I am sitting on the edge of our little niche in the cliff-face, feet resting on a dark oblivion. The waxing moon is barely a sliver of silver in the sky. The stars encrust the sable heavens in diamond light. And below is a shaggy carpet of black, bending trees and, and a pitiful, disembodied cry of our mystery bawler. Peter was sick in his sleep from the berry juice. I can feel my desperation growing, like a living thing, deep inside my gut. The Coal will keep him alive, but for how long? And at what price?

I watch the water from the Great Falls leave the Western Wild and tumble into the boiling Cauldron Pool below. In the poor light, it seems to flow backwards at times, or to slow down, or the dance with laughing and glittering faces, some of which are not unfamiliar. My tired mind toys with the water while my wired body keeps it awake.

Aslan told me once that Peter was the cornerstone of our family. Remove Peter from the mix, and everything would fall to ruin.

It's not difficult to visualize the chaos if something were to happen to Peter now: the death of Lucy, the death of hundreds of Narnians, the invasion of our enemies… Narnia would, without a doubt, fall.

My fingers scrape over the jagged rock of my ledge, grit collecting under my nails, and a terrible thought finds me;

I am Narnia's only hope for survival.

The bawling continues. I shiver in the crescent moonlight, watching my breath ghost upwards and dissipate. And there is no soft, still voice to contradict me this time.

"I'm not afraid," I say, words lost in water and screaming. My stomach aches but I cannot bring myself to eat any of the food we've gathered. Peter might need it. And the thought of eating anything makes me queasy. "I'm not."

A soft breeze carries on the treetops, lifts my sweaty and dirty hair, cools my flushed face. My own words to Lucy are whispered back to me by a memory.

_You don't have to be. I'll protect you._

The bawling seems to double, somehow closer. Somehow more tangible. I stand up on the ledge and then stop, hesitating. I hear a loud bark, and my ears tune into it easily. At least three Wolves, and the Bawler, and a still, small voice pricking my heart with an urgency not unlike my anxiety for Peter. What am I waiting for?

_Go,_ the voice says, and I'd be a fool not to recognize whose.

I go, because something has to move, something has to _change_ with days of Peter dying, slowly fading, and all of Narnia waning beneath the waxing moon, and _I'm not dead_. I'm running downhill, no knife, no cover, no goodbyes, just running on bare, scabbed feet and tearing open half-healed cuts on rock and brier on my way down to the Cauldron Pool. Running. Only my breath and my heartbeat. Unseen and unseeing, blindly, faithfully pelting into the thick of the unknown. Freed.

I pound through the soft beach of the pool, and only slow once as inspiration strikes; I pitch forward and roll through the mud of the bank, gripping handfuls as I bound back up and continue, smearing it over my face and rubbing it into my hair, grinning now and _running_ with an image of Susan's affectionate eyes and Peter's smile and the peal of Lucy's laughter lightening my chest.

_Go, _the voice says and I leap a fallen log.

_Go, _the voice says, and I bank hard left, turning North East as the barking grows and the bawling escalates.

Go, and I'm exploding out into a clearing by the cliff side, a giant Magnolia dominating the world with leaves the size of Horses and blooming white flowers like full moons. At its base, three Wolves snarl and snap and jump on their hind legs, trying to get at something in the great Tree.

"OI!" bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it, in a voice far deeper than my own, and I don't stop to gauge the length of the Wolves' teeth, but _they_ certainly pause to take in the sight of a muddy, two-legged figure mindlessly sprinting at them.

The largest of them plants his feet and growls low, hackles rising and hair standing up on end, "State your business, stranger!"

"State _your_ business!" I bellow back, finally stopped, about five meters away. At my continued volume, the large Wolf's ears flicker backwards, uncertain. "All this barkin' and hollerin' at this time a' night- How's anybody supposed ta' get _any sleep?" _An unusual accent falls onto my tongue, covering my voice like mud. I am dripping in this pell-mell disguise, toying with the hearing, sight, and smell of the Wolves.

"And you are?" asks another Wolf. In the starlight, a deep gash over his eye, like the cut of a spur, becomes prominent. I remember him and the salmon in the creek, only a day or so ago. He's small and compact compared to the other two (the last of which I'm certain is female), but I can tell an Alpha when I see one.

"Nikkabrik," I invent, "And I'd appreciate some peace and quiet, thank you very much!"

"You? A dwarf?" the Alpha asks.

Behind him, the female has lost interest in me and is snapping again at the mysterious Bawler. She carries a sword across her back.

I set my teeth and summon my worst temperaments, feeling the familiar tenseness in my chin and brow.

"I'm uncommon tall," I admit grudgingly. It will probably be the only time in my life when I get to say it. "But _you're_ uncommon short."

He growls, and the larger male takes a hesitant sniff at the air. I force myself not to breathe.

"Smells like earth," the big Wolf informs the Alpha. They both pause to sniff again. The mud covering me must mask my scent more than I had anticipated.

"_All_ Black Dwarves smell like earth," I say, as sarcastically as I can. It feels good to goad them. "But in all my years, I've never met a' pack a' Wolves as _daft_ as you lot. Don't you know there's a mad-Hag a'rambling 'round in these parts?"

Surprisingly, they laugh.

"Oh, you mean the _Cailleach_?" the Alpha snorts, suddenly in a good mood. Big Wolf laughs a little more wildly than is called for, and rolls around like a puppy in the fallen leaves of the Magnolia. "Her power's dying with Jadis. All she's good for anymore is fixing rope and making snow."

"Snow," I say slowly. The word sparks some memory, but the image is unclear and the event is blurred. "I see."

They laugh again; I'm hilarious.

"Snow!" exclaims Big Wolf. He makes it sound like a novel idea.

"I want more!" whines the female, trotting over to join us. In the twilight, I can make out the sword on her back; a magnificent metal pommel in the shape of a Lion's head.

The males snicker and slobber a little on themselves and suddenly the Alpha snaps to attention.

"Yes," he says, very seriously, "We will see the Hag to get more snow. I already feel it wearing off."

The large male whines, "But she said no more!"

"I can get it for you," I say quickly. I am very careful not to look at the female for more than is necessary. "Snow. I know ta' _Cailleach_ well. I can get you double, for that." And I nod at Rhindon.

The female growls low in her throat, teeth white and gums black.

"Yes!" the big Wolf says. "Give it to him, Zeta!"

"_I _found it!"

"Give it to him, Zeta," the Alpha orders. He looks at me, "For _triple_."

"Deal," I say. My accent almost slips in relief. "Triple."

She growls once but gnaws it off from her back. It rattles to the ground, and I fight the trembling in my hands to grab at it.

"Snow, snow, snowsnowsnow_snow!"_ barks Big Wolf, jumping and frolicking around them.

"I want it in three days," the Alpha grins at me and lets out a howl at the crescent moon, and the other two follow his lead, with answers echoing elsewhere in the Wood. They take off into the darkness without so much as a glance at me, and the Magnolia, for the first time tonight, is completely silent.

I dive for Rhindon.

Heavy, familiar, a little dirty, I hug it to my drumming chest and kiss the pommel, as I have seen Peter do hundreds of times. Then, very carefully, unfamiliar with Peter's fastening methods, strap it across my back. Something falls into place in that movement and I let out a breath. Listen to the soft wind resting on the leaves of the earth, and head towards the base of the Tree. Rhindon sits heavily across my shoulders: a consistent reminder.

"Hello?" I call. "Is anybody there?"

The leaves are silent. Frowning, I duck under a branch and find myself behind the Magnolia's shield-like leaves, faced with a bare trunk and close-to-the-ground branches, ideal for climbing. There is a large, black shape that my eyes can just make out towards the cliff-side of the Tree, where its base meets the bottom of the rocky edge. I grab the lowest branch and pull myself up, climbing easily from bough to bough until I'm well above the ground.

"Come on, now," I say, trying to be soothing but sounding a little exasperated, even to my own ears. "I'm here to help you."

The shadow shifts, and I pause a branch below it, watching the green leaves glow red in the rise of the morning sun, and the shadow slipping into mangled browns and a curious shape rooting out its head which I begin to realize are—

"Antlers!" I exclaim, a laugh catching in my throat. The great shape turns a little on the branch where his antlers are stuck on the branches and his hooves dangle through the leaves. Large brown eyes with thick, dark lashes blink at me through long-suffering tears. I freeze, shocked by the bizarre and unexpected turn of events.

There, hanging by foliage and looking unbelievably like a Christmas tree ornament, is a fully grown Bull Moose.

"Ah, strange and well-shaven dwarf," says the Moose mournfully, its somber features framed with waxy green leaves and blooming white flowers, "Perhaps you could assist me. You see, I was out walking yester-noon, admiring the foliage when lo-! I beheld a truly magnificent magnolia tree blooming in the late afternoon. And there, in its highest branches, there grew a flower. A flower as pure a white as you could ever imagine resting nestled as a precious egg within the protective shade of its abounding leaves. Entranced, I drew nigh to that perfect blooming flower in hopes of only caressing its sweet petal with the tip of my nose. Alas," the Moose head laments dully, "my mighty antlers grew entangled in the branches and I have been held captive here ever since, plagued by canine ne'er-do-wells and flies."

"Great Scot," I say.

To my credit, it's all that will come out.

"Alas, good dwarf, your comment does well to surmise my fate," the Moose continues, "but if you would aid my escape from my leafy prison, I should be most grateful. For, you see, I possess the most devilish itch behind my right ear, and I cannot seem to-"

"Oh!" I cry, as my brain finally catches up to me. "Yes, of course!"

Scrambling up, I climb to the branch holding the Moose "captive" and squint in the twilight hour to see how to dislodge him, scratching a little hesitantly behind his right ear. He lets out a deep, goose-like moan of pleasure and his tall ear flicks under my fingers.

"Oh, good Dwarf!" cries the Moose, "I am forever indebted to your noble character! Nobly bright, sir, nobly bright! I shall follow you unto the very ends of the world as Aslan will permit me, bound only by my word and—"

"—That's all right," I interrupt, taking in the gouges in the branch from his combined weight and cutting of his antlers into the wood. He looks good and properly stuck.

"What's your name?"

"Ethelbert of Sansey Gardens," Ethelbert says, "I was born long ago in a little niche under a family Oak (held by the Hamadryad Milon in that time) which—"

"I'm Edmund," I cut in.

Here, Moose Ethelbert of Sansey Gardens seems to realize I'm more of a short-sentence fellow, and replies, "It is well met, good Dwarf Edmund Nikkabrik."

I don't correct him. There isn't time.

"How'd you say you got stuck here, again? You climbed the ledge and leaned over?"

It would make sense- the cliff slopes towards the Magnolia, stopping abruptly with a ten foot gap between the ledge and the ground below. For a Moose like Ethelbert, the sandy slide would have been all too easy to slip off of when standing on his hind legs and leaning out.

The great Moose makes a motion that rattles the branch I'm perched on, and I assume that he tried to nod.

"And my mighty antlers became entangled in the branch, and the more I struggled, the far into the tree I slid, until I was caught and my feet fell out from under me on the grievous cliff side."

I glance down, craning my head around leaves and Moose to look for the space below.

"There's a space between your hooves and the ground there- only about as long as my forearm," I tell him, bringing up my arm to illustrate. "If I can find some stones, I can pile them below you so that you can stand up." It should relieve some of the strain on his antlers, and once we have him standing on his hind legs, we may be able to have some space to work with his antlers.

"Oh, sir," Ethelbert begins triumphantly. His large eyes are watering and his thick lashes flutter delicately. "You are the most noble of Dwarves. May all of Narnia sing of your genius and masterful craft until the stars-"

"All right, Ethelbert," I cut in hastily. "Just give me a moment."

I clamber back down the branches and drop to the soft earth below, feeling around Ethelbert's swinging limbs and searching for stone large enough for him to stand on. Luckily for me, not far from the base of the tree, a large rock leans against the cliff. It looks like it broke off and fell. Using all my strength, I go behind it and push at the topmost corner, inwardly cheering when it begins to tip towards the Magnolia. As soon as it passes its perpendicular point with Narnian soil, it falls like a thunderclap against the ground, squarely beneath Ethelbert's hooves. I fill the remaining space with progressively smaller and smaller stones, until I have to ask Ethelbert to lift his feet upwards so that I can slide the flat rock beneath him. At long last, sweating and nervous, I climb back up the Magnolia and pat between Ethelbert's antlers.

"Give it a go, Ethelbert."

We both let out a cheer as he stands with wobbly knees, lifting his antlers a few centimeters above the branch.

Still, he's trapped and I eye the forking branch thoughtfully. Then I draw Rhindon and test the blade on my thumb—Blood, dark red and reeking of iron, wells up from my skin. I suck on it.

"Right," I say, making up my mind. "Stay very still, Bert."

Rhindon is at least twice as heavy as Shafelm, and its blade is longer, but its edge is what I need, and as I swing it down it cuts deep into the green wood of the branch.

Ethelbert lets out a bawl of concern. I yank Rhindon free again and pat Ethelbert on the head.

_If you so much as dent that sword… _comes Peter's voice, unbidden, to my mind.

"I'll dent your head," I mutter.

"What?" Ethelbert bawls pitifully. Hastily, I fall to patting and scratching his ears again.

"No, no, sorry, not you Bert—"

He quiets soon enough, but I'd wager that my "noble brightness" has already dimmed somewhat in his mind. I swing Rhindon again, and it cleaves through one side of the fork. The branch trapping one side of Ethelbert's antlers falls down with a hushing crash, and Ethelbert stumbles sideways, collapsing on his four legs, which fold beneath him. He lays on the ground for a moment, blinking in wonder, and I sheath Rhindon and swing off the branch to land at his side.

"Ethelbert—Are you okay? How are your legs?"

"Edmund Nikkabrik, Dwarf of the West, I hereby pledge myself, body and soul unto thine divine person," Ethelbert exclaims tearfully, rolling around on the ground in an effort to find his feet. As he continues, I hasten to help him, pushing to roll him so that his legs are almost under him. All the while, he spills more and more grandiose praises on my person, my face, my spirit, my wit, and all the rest. I feel thoroughly blessed and a little irate by the end of his spiel.

And also a lot relieved.

"Bert," I say, "If you wouldn't mind fulfilling that debt right now, I'd be very much obliged."

"Name it, sir! That I might-"

"My brother is dying," I say and Rhindon, cold against my back, gives me an unwelcome chill. "Please, help me."

**OooOooOooOooO**

"He is not a Dwarf," Ethelbert says, and I'm tempted to answer in dripping sarcasm.

"No. He's a—" But _boy_ doesn't suit Peter. "He's a Son of Adam."

Ethelbert's wet brown eyes are watching me. He cannot fit into the niche, but bows his large head to peek beneath. I go under the ledge and gather Peter up, keeping the Coal close to him as I pull him towards the entrance. His hair soaks my sleeve. He shivers under the dampened cloak.

"Let me see the wound," Ethelbert says.

I lay Peter down in front of him and pull back the moss, revealing green and black and brown and red- all flesh and pus and misery. Ethelbert makes a sound.

"It won't heal," I tell him. "It's been like this for days."

"What felled him? Sword?"

"Arrow."

The Moose nods solemnly. "Then the head is still inside of him, poisoning him."

"How do we get it out?" I ask.

Then I take in Ethelbert's round hooves and look at my own fingers, understanding flooding me; "How do _I_ get it out?"

Ethelbert, in a surprisingly short monologue, explains that the only way to remove the arrowhead is to reach in and pull it out. First- I must reopen the wound so that I can work inside of it.

The knife would be more practical, but it is Brighid's. I cannot think of bringing it close to Peter. I draw Rhindon instead, dizzy. It points at Peter's chest. I'm almost sick. I want to say _I can't_ and curl up and cry like a baby. But I haven't cried yet. And if I have to choose between hurting Peter and letting him die slowly, then I'd think the choice is rather obvious.

I grip Rhindon around the end, leaning the pommel against my neck. Using two hands, I carefully cut into the festering skin at the high shoulder. It isn't a wide cut- maybe two inches long, and not very deep, as Ethelbert tells me, so I have to do it again, careful not to cut _too_ deeply. The smell is terrible. I am glad Peter is unconscious for this.

"Now, carefully, Edmund-"

I put Rhindon aside, slick with its master's blood, and reach two fingers inside of my brother's skin.

It's warm, is the first thought. I blink stinging from my eyes and hold my breath, trying not to pass out. I meet something hard almost immediately, but it's too rounded and slippery. I gag, quickly retracting my probing fingers from Peter's collarbone. There is a gap there, between the collarbone and another rounded form that I know is the upper end of his humerus. As I push into it, pus spills over my fingers. _Found you_. My fingers scrape sharp, unfamiliar metal. My fingernails, longer from days on the road, are able pinch at it, and pull.

There is no serrated edge- it slides free, cut like a diamond and shining red in the morning sun.

I long to pitch it into the woods, but stumble blindly away to wash it off in the Pool and wrap it into a ripped patch of my shirt.

When I reach the water, I stare at the surface of the boiling Pool, my face distorted and brown with mud, my hands red with clay and blood. I strip off my shirt and pull of my breeches and wade into the shallows, splashing fresh water over my face again and again and again, scrubbing brown from the black of my hair, red from the white of my hands. I pull my clothes into the water and scrub them against each other until all the dirt and grime is washed away down the stream that carries from the Pool to the Eastern Sea. My arms are shaking, but I'm not cold. I climb out and redress in silence.

I return from the Pool. Peter's shoulder has been washed and redressed, and Ethelbert, even as I approach, spits out the cud he'd been chewing thoughtfully on and presses it delicately onto Peter's collarbone.

"What is that?" I ask, dropping down beside Peter. Every fiber of me sings with weariness. I've felt it once before- after hugging Susan and Lucy and turning to Peter. Hearing _Get some sleep _and then, like a tide of miracles, a smile and _Try not to wander off._ I slept for half a day after that.

"It is an herbal mix," says Ethelbert. He chews another batch of greeny leaves and speaks around them, "It should aid with the pain and speed up natural healing processes."

"Thank you," I say. My eyes are already closed. Peter's breathing presses his arm against mine. The Coal radiates drying warmth from the dip where Peter's neck meets Peter's collarbones. I can feel my wet clothes drying and my hair curling.

"Edmund Nikkabrik, Dwarf of the West," Ethelbert of Sansey Gardens says, "Forgive my wretched curiosity, but as I was waiting for you to return, I found myself in thought. And as I thought, I realized that it is strangely curious that you should have a Son of Adam for a brother."

"Guess I'm just lucky," I mutter.

And I'm sound asleep at Peter's side.

**OooOooOooOooO**

**Narnia, Year 1000. 6 Days After the High King's Departure**

_I awoke, soaking wet, and tangled in some viney net with the entire world moving violently around me._

_A foul-smelling jar crashed into my cheekbone, stinging my skin, and I struggled to keep balance- tossed from side to glass-shard-covered side of the small space. Powders and leaves and unknown liquids mixed into an inconsistent paste, coating me in grime as I slipped and slid around the wooden flooring, groping for a familiar fabric. I went airborne only momentarily, thrown upwards and sideways by the groaning floor that rattled dangerously beneath, and when I landed again, my aching head cracked hard against a low-hanging shelf._

_Moaning, and biting back sharp tears, I flung a hand out to latch onto something-anything- that wasn't mobile._

_I found an arm._

_"Peter!" But I was rocked violently over by the force of a sudden turn, and tumbled over my knees, face mashed into the heavy rabbit-lined cloak of my brother. Glass and pottery trembled in their cabinets. I clambered up to find Peter's face, patting it with a messy hand and clinging desperately to his shoulder to keep from being tossed away again. "Peter! Peter-" My scrambling hand found the arrow then, buried in the high shoulder. A soft rhythm tapped beside it. A steady stream of warmish liquid steadily worked into the fur, overcoming the odd and disorienting scents of the enclosed space with rusted iron. _

_"Wake up! __Wake UP!"_

_The world shook, rattling beneath and above, loud and roaring and so gorged with fear that it was hard to draw breath. The arm that I squeezed was loose and useless; a quick and sightless check revealed that Rhindon was missing from its place at Peter's side. That left us utterly defenseless; Shafelm was gone as well._

_Something crashed again, just above Peter's head. Vision blurred with darkness and wildness, I checked the wreckage away with a vicious swipe of one hand and buried my head beside the arrow, covering my brother. _

_It seemed that the swaying floorboards would never stop moving, but eventually I found that by bracing one boot against the shelves to my right while leaning more heavily on Peter, I could prevent the two of us from being dragged across the sharp wreckage of bottles and jars by the force of the wagon's swaying._

It has to be a wagon_, I thought, face buried deeply into the soft hood of Peter's cloak. _Although, I can't remember making it out of the water_._

_No water did I hear- but the fingernails of trees, and the faces of rocks, and the whistling of wind against the sides of our wheeling jail. The entire world had become strangely desperate for possession of we two young Kings, and in the midst of the battle of the mysterious driver versus the rampant woods, Peter and I were hurled through an invisible gauntlet. And at the head of this manic hell-ride, rose a voice that was as ancient and crackling at lightning, startling me and drawing my attention to another matter entirely;_

_Sticky resistance met me when I tried to lift my head, sucking and greedy much too plentiful. _

_"Oh, Peter..."_

_It was sickening to swallow down the fierce tightness in my throat, but I did so, immediately throwing my face back down into the blood and the grime of the soiled fur blanketing him. _

Aslan, where are you?_My thoughts cried out, repeating in some primal mantra that perfectly matched the drumming of the wheels against the roaring earth below. _Save us, save us, save us, Aslan!

_A bump, a dip, and a temperamental turn. The driver's whip could be heard in the distance, flicking the frayed edges of my control with stinging cold. _

_And then the Wolves began to howl._

"_Aslan," my mouth whispered, eyes searching wooden shadows for snarling shapes I could not see, "If there was ever a time to come roaring to the rescue…"_

_There came, what sounded initially, like a second set of wheels pulling up alongside us. Both sides- panting breaths and padded thumps that were not Peter's harsh breathing or ill heartbeat, the snapping of teeth that was not the break of branches on the wagon's paneling. A full pack- fifteen or so strong- must have surrounded the entire wagon. Snarling barks and cat-calling howls signaled back and forth._

_Was it strange that I knew which one meant _Bring it down?

_A rough and throaty growl sounded through the wood below Peter and me, and I held his breath, pulling Peter's head up and away from the flooring as the rattling wagon began to slow. Snuffling came once the wheels groaned to a full stop, muffled through the wood and entirely too close, but I didn't dare move another hair- I was certain the creaking floorboards would give us away._

SNAP_ went the whip, securing a whining yelp from below the wagon, and freezing my heart in place as the rough scrambling of Wolf nails in leaves scratched my ears._

"_Away from there, miserable wretch!" came that ancient voice, hissing and cracking through the air, "You won't find me snooping through your belongings so freely!"_

"_We follow a scent," a rough growl returned, somewhere off to the right, "The blood of a Son of Adam."_

_"Sons of Adam!" went up the excited howl. A thrill shot down my spine._

_"And you think that I would house it? Ingrate?" There was that whip again, though it seemed to take on the sharper form of cold words from a cruel mouth, "Be grateful I don't skin you alive, you Beasts. That's a full bale of Wolf'sbane lying in there- Feel so adventuresome now?"_

_A low whine came directly beneath, and nails scratched their way out from under Peter and I, moving to pad alongside the wagon to join the rest. I released a small breath, tightening my hold across Peter's slumped shoulders._

_"We know what we smell," began the rough growl again, and the ancient voice cackled._

_"Oh, do you? Your nose doesn't know your tail from a tree!"_

_The Wolf snarled. I held as still as stone. Peter's head listed against me._

_"Enough," said a new voice. This one was softer. "Brighid, if you speak the truth, open the door so that we can look in for ourselves."_

_"On your head be it," the old voice, Brighid, replied, and suddenly the wagon was flooded with light._

_I blinked rapidly around the net that still covered me, jaw set. Two Wolves, far larger than the rest, were standing on their hind legs to look in. One only had one eye- a gouge much like the dotting red line of a riding spur slit his left eyelid. The other was female, with thick black fur. Both looked straight at me, and I at them. I found myself dumbly prepared for death._

_But they didn't kill us. _

_I don't think they even saw us, though I could clearly see them. They even sniffed the air, but for whatever reason, perhaps because of all the gunk coating Peter and I, perhaps because of something magic, they didn't smell us either. They settled back onto their haunches and walked away from the wagon, looking miffed. A hooded form crossed to stand in front of the entrance. A gnarled hand resting on the door handle._

_"What did I tell you, you foolish pups? Now leave so I can get on with my day."_

_The hooded ancient stood there until all the Wolves had disappeared into the trees. Then it turned to close the door._

_"Wise of you, Son of Adam," it said. The blood-red beak glistened and grey matted hair fell in dingy wisps by a withered face. "You best be quiet yet, if either of you want to live."_

_The Hag's hand moved at me, and my vision went grey._

_Then black. _

**A/N:**

**A lot was covered in this chapter. Firstly, Ethelbert, who has waited in that tree for two years, waiting to meet you all. Secondly, Edmund as an actor. I've never noticed how many roles he takes on without pausing to mull each one over. He just sort of shifts personalities as he needs to. (I'm going to have fun with that.) And, lastly, a lot of hints that will be blown up in future chapters.  
**

**Comments, questions, concerns? PM, email, or review. Thanks for reading!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	15. black: The Importance of Close Reading

**MONOCHROME**

**Chapter Fifteen: The Importance of Close Reading**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I can afford summer classes, but not the legal ramifications of claiming this series.**

* * *

_"We each have different gifts, according to the grace given us," Romans 12:6_

* * *

_"Wise of you, Son of Adam," it said. The blood-red beak glistened and grey matted hair fell in dingy wisps by a withered face. "You best be quiet yet, if either of you want to live."_

_The Hag's hand moved at me, and my vision went grey._

_Then black. _

**Cair Paravel, Narnia: Year 1000, Six days after the High King's Departure**

On the same day that King Edmund is riding hard into the West, and King Peter is riding hard to the East, Queen Lucy opens her sore eyes and stares. Across a plain of fawnish linen and tumbling hills of fabric, there is a soft round glow of the lamp, like the rising sun, behind the cloth horizon. The smell of clean linen is everywhere, sunshine and soap, and the crack of the fire sounds almost like the muttering voice of a friendly story. Lucy lies a moment longer in the pile of fire-dried laundry (it's hers anyway) and wraps her fingers into the nest just as her dreams catch up with her.

"Aslan!" she breathes and, sitting up too suddenly, cracks her head on the low ceiling.

"Oh, dear!" cries a voice, and Lucy feels two round paws take up her face, patting and soothing. "If you please'm, just stay still a moment longer, your Majesty. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Tiggywinkle," replies Lucy, through squinted eyes. "I was just channeling my brothers." She gestures at her forehead with a laugh and Mrs. Tiggywinkle's dark eyes squint with merriment.

"If you please'm, the Kings do remind one of young fawns- colts, even- at times. All the cooks and washers fret over them. Even the General is known to wring his hands in private."

Lucy is amused. "The General?"

Mrs. Tiggywinkle brings a claw to her smiling lips, clearly implying the importance of secrecy, and Lucy laughs again.

"Thank you for letting me stay here."

She sits up carefully so that her feet touch the dirt floor of the little house. For a moment, she feels lost inside of her small body, unfamiliar with the length of her own limbs. The room squeezes in all around her and she has a sense of a sword gripped in her hand, but it vanishes soon and then she is only Lucy. "How long was I asleep?"

Mrs. Tiggywinkle's nose dances and her wet little eyes glisten in the firelight. She smoothes down her lilac apron as she bustles around the little dirt room, putting away irons and folding blankets. "Only an hour, Queen Lucy. The laundry's almost finished, if you please'm, and Queen Susan has sent word for you to return to the Cair once you've finished."

"Can I help you carry this?" Lucy asks, gesturing to the mountain of bed sheets, pinafores, and nightgowns that retains a small crevice where she had been resting. "After all, I'd hardly want you to have to make two trips. It's quite the walk."

Mrs. Tiggywinkle says that she would be delighted of the company, and once the last kerchief has been pressed, she loads her little wicker basket with half, and loads a second for Lucy. They lock the little door to the little home and start, hand in paw, up the road through the city to the Cair.

The castle Cair Paravel floats atop a sea of little stone houses, the city of Cair Paravel, which cloisters closely to the white-stoned palace around the western wall. This was the view which Edmund had from his balcony- the city, all of Narnia rolling beyond, and far, far to the edge, his Western Wood. Lucy, whose windows faced only the Eastern Sea, and whose balcony hovered above a fifty-meter cliff drop into the reaching ocean, loved spending time in the town with the Narnian people. Before the disease spread to Narnia, it was not unusual for Lucy to spend several hours of every day in town, sharing meals or playing tag with Centaur foals.

"Queen Lucy!"

A group of young Narnians, a young Pony named Kelvin, a Budgiar called Merwip, and a blackish Kitten (still without a name, due to her parent's squabble over family ties and honors) notice her from their spot at the Well, rising and rushing to her in a flurry of wings and paws and hooves. The blue and white Budgiar settles on her shoulder, immediately lost in the ends of her hair, chirbling happily into the shell of her ear while the Kitten rubs against her leg and the roan Pony bumps her breastbone in greeting.

"We thought you'd gotten sick!"

"Are you feeling better?"

"Is King Peter back with the cure?"

Lucy has to set down the basket, her hands full of downy feathers and fur and the tickling velvet of the Pony's black nose. They nearly bowl her over with their energy. As her fingers scratch at Kelvin's forehead and stroke the arching spine of the Kitten, Merwip's voice says, shyly, "We missed you very much, your Majesty."

Lucy looks up to catch Mrs. Tiggywinkle's eye, and the good Hedgehog gives a little curtsey, continuing on her way with her little basket. When she has gone, Lucy throws her arms around Kelvin and kisses the Kitten.

"And I missed all of you," Lucy says, sitting on the lip of the Well with her legs crossed. Kelvin and the Kitten instantly settle beside her, and Merwip reappears through the layers of her light hair, singing some minute song of joy. "Yes, I had gotten sick. Yes, I am feeling better. But no, Peter has not returned."

"Then how is it that you're healed, Queen Lucy?" Kelvin asks in amazement. "Did you find your Cordial?"

"That's still lost."

"It was Aslan!" cries Kitten, a little smugly. "I knew He'd do something." Her tail lashes the air, too quick to be completely confident, and she rests her chin on Lucy's knee, eyes squinting, and receives a pleasant scratch between her eyes in answer.

"Yes, it was Aslan," Lucy agrees. "I'm sure He wanted me to get back to you all as soon as possible. Now, how are your families?"

"My brother's still sick," says Kelvin.

"My sister's still sick," says Merwip.

Kitten says softly, "Two of my cousins passed two days ago."

Lucy nods very gently and has to bite her lip to keep from crying. Her heart gives a terrible _pang_ in her chest, and she kisses Kitten on the head, then Kelvin and Merwip in turn. Standing with her basket, she asks to be taken there, and she is led down the narrow streets of cobblestone and thatch-roof huts, down to where the bell tower rings in continuous mourning. Edmund used to go still and tight whenever it rang, attuned to its notes even on the Eastern side of the Cair. Lucy often wondered how he managed listening to it every morning and every night. She would have gone mad.

_But, _whispers some part of Lucy's mind, _isn't that why he left to find Peter?_

Yes, it was. Lucy has to concede that the bell, and what it stood for, must have been bad enough to endure. But it was Peter turning back that had broken Edmund's stony reserve, and Lucy has no such fortress to hide behind. The deeper they walk into the city, the louder the bell, the more her heart aches within her and before long, silent tears are running their course down the sides of her face. She cannot wipe at them with her burden, but lowers her head just enough so that her people will not see.

"Queen Lucy."

It's Mrs. Tiggywinkle. She's walking from the opposite direction, and greets Lucy with a soft face and a clean handkerchief, standing on tiptoes to reach the girl's damp face. She tuts a little, soothing. Lucy imagines this must be what a mother is like.

"Keep smiling," the Hedgehog whispers, and pushes the kerchief into Lucy's dress pocket.

Lucy sniffs, smiles, and nods. The party continues, this time with Mrs. Tiggywinkle, towards the bell tower, where Narnian matrons work in silence and in grey solemnity, arranging stacks of wood and the cloth-wrapped bundles settled atop them. When these Narnians see Lucy, several of them are greatly amazed, but don't dare to question her. It is just as well; Lucy finds that she cannot speak at the moment. A Faun takes her basket of linens with a bow. Kitten climbs Lucy's dress with sharp little claws to reach her shoulder.

"That's them," Kitten tells her. She points to a small bundle wrapped in curtains to the right and they make their way slowly over.

Lucy places her hand on them. "What were their names?"

"Orkely and Jasser."

Lucy kisses Orkely and Jasser, and pulls the ribbon from her hair to tie around them. The scarlet screams out from the white. Marked. There are hundreds of bundles like this around the bell tower, where the fires are about to start and the air is about to become impossible to breathe.

_Here is where I go mad, _Lucy thinks. _Here is the last of my reserve._

She knows that, by now, she should have been one of them. She wonders if she still will be one of them.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

"Lucy, dear," Susan frowns, watching her younger sister work at her soup at a tortoise pace. "Are you losing your appetite again?"

Lucy carefully finishes off the broth and sets the bowl on the low oak table. Her pink dressing gown flows over the rich burgundy and gold of the carpets, a few little pink toes peeping out from the white-hem. "No. Well, not really. It's just... been a very sad day. I had no idea the numbers had risen so much while I was sick. I wonder that Edmund could _wait_ to go West at all." And she starts cautiously upon a loaf of rye, buttered knife in hand.

"Well, you know Edmund."

"Mm," Lucy agrees. "Patience, though, is a new trait for him."

Susan distractedly wipes a slip of soup from her sister's cheek, reveling in the cheered flush to the young skin and the healthy glow of the unrimmed eyes. They're sitting at the little table in Lucy's chambers with elbows on the table and legs folded across thick, lush pillows. Susan's chin rests in her palm. Lucy's chin nearly rests in her bowl.

Two days ago, Lucy woke up feeling better. The next day, she was perfectly healthy. And she made sure everyone knew about it. In fact, she'd washed, dressed, called her handmaidens, and trooped straight into the middle of Susan's trade agreement with the Count and Countess of Archenland.

Everything seemed a lot clearer with Lucy around. As her sister charmed and smiled at the Count, Susan began to realize that the Countess was a rather cold girl that didn't seem to actually enjoy Narnia all that much. And when Lucy turned on the Countess and received nothing but false smiled and well-wishes in return, Susan felt some hot ball of iron drop into her chest, make her stand from her throne, and pummel out from her mouth that she would need time to consider the trade agreement after all, good day and see you at supper.

"Edmund used to be patient. Before the war."

"With the Witch?"

Susan gives her an odd look. "No, years before that. In England. It was when you were a baby, though, so maybe you just don't remember. But Peter and Edmund got along and everything when they were younger."

Lucy sobers. "I had another dream about them. Before I went to the pyres."

This is also new. The first time, it was explained that Peter was in trouble and that Aslan wanted Edmund to ride out West to protect him. If Lucy had just been _talking_ about prophetic dreams, it would have been one thing. But the catch was that Edmund (stoic, sensible Edmund) had actually _listened _to her and rode out in the dead of night to obey. It is more faith in her siblings than anything that lets Susan believe her sister is seeing the future. Yet something about the whole dream business and the lack of having Peter to guide her from the sidelines makes Susan rather want to break down the door for answers. Maybe the Library would be the place to start...

For now, though, Lucy is the only informant available. "Did what Ethelbert do work? Is Peter all right?"

"Peter's fine," Lucy assures her. "In my dream, Ethelbert took the two of them to Sansey Gardens."

"Where Ethelbert is from?"

"Yes. There's a secluded colony of Narnians there. They're cut off from the Cair by Fell Beasts and mountains. It's rather high up."

Susan fidgets under the table. "Do you know how long they'll be there for?"

"That's the thing," Lucy says. She puts down her spoon and turns in her seat, leaning in with earnest eyes. "There's... There's something funny about the _days _in my dreams."

"Funny how?"

"I don't know," Lucy murmurs. She rakes a stray, strawberry lock behind one ear and lifts her glass to sip at her milk. "But the moon seems off."

The moon seems off. Lucy is having dreams of events days and miles away and she's worried about how the _moon _seems off. Now Susan really, _really _wants to go to the Library.

"Anyway. They'll be home the day after tomorrow."

Susan drops her fork. Two days? All at once she feels dizzy and heavy and amazed and so very, very _relieved. _

But she has to know: "_How do you know that?"_

"Aslan told me," Lucy replies, as if it should be obvious. And maybe, to a prophetess, it is. "Oh, and He also said that the Master Librarian will tell you everything you need to know."

"... The-?" Susan takes a very deep breath and has the grace to feel embarassed. "The Librarian?"

Lucy shrugs. "I'm not sure what that part was about."

**OooOooOooOooO**

Susan knows exactly what that part was about. She waits until Lucy is asleep in Susan's quarters to run to the Library and catch the Master Librarian by the door.

"Your Majesty!" he bleats in salute. "I trust you're sleeping well. It's rather late for a before-bed read."

"I need to know about Jadis," Susan says, and the Master Librarian promptly faints.

Because he is a fainting Goat, Susan is only minutely alarmed. She kneels beside him, fanning him with a pamphlet on dew collection until his thick eyelashes begin to shudder, then she helps him to his feet and poises the question in a slightly more Gentle fashion;

"Please, Gallfrey, it's of the utmost importance. I need to know about the Hundred Year Winter."

"You'll forgive my nerves, I hope. No one's spoken that name outright in nearly a century," the Master Librarian says. His rectangular pupils focus on the shelf at Susan's eyelevel and she slides her finger in the air beside the entire row until he nods at the right book. This one is a slim volume, maybe a few pages shy of one hundred, and the writing is nearly illegible. It looks like something Peter would write.

"This is a first-hand account of the early days of the Winter. How it came about and how the first few years went." The Master Librarian sighs a deep, braying sort of sigh. "It was a terrible time. Not at all the sort of thing to read before sleeping."

Susan flips the book onto its back, looks at the clean cut of the spine, the minimal wearing. "It's in fantastic condition for a one-hundred year old book."

"Well," says the Goat, "That's because it's not. I just finished it today. This is my first-hand account."

Susan looks at him.

"But you couldn't have possibly _been there_."

The Master Librarian is startled. "Why ever not, your Highness?"

"Well, you can't be a hundred years old! It's just not-"

_Possible_, is the word. And with it, the word _magic_ springs to Susan's mind.

"Oh," she breathes, "_Oh."_

And then _magic_ catches on the memory of Peter- telling her about remnants of Winter to the West- and Susan thinks she just might understand everything that is going on at once. '_He also said that the Master Librarian will tell you everything you need to know...'_

"I'll need to see everything that was written during, on, or about the Winter," Susan says. "_Now_."

**OooOooOooOooO**

Archenland, in the Year of Our Lord Dune, 900.

_There was once an ancient oak that was crafted into a legend._

_It was not the first of its kind- Neither a tree of Knowledge nor of Life. Not of Apple or Fir. It did not mark a beginning and it held no power to bring an end. But because the story-teller had captured such wonderful images in the common wood, there was not a soul in all of Narnia that did not hear it._

_The tale of the oak was a rare path that filled the middle places._

_The tale that led to Salvation._

_In those days, great men walked the earth. it was necessary- for a terrible evil roamed in the shadows between them, whose name spelled Death. Men and Death struggled day in and day out, for Death and his forces had taken the countryside and were fast approaching the palace of the King. Many died protecting that white-stoned fortress, but Death was sly and could slip through the smallest hole in the strongest walls. Now, it happened that one day, Death found such a hole and appeared in the bedroom of the Queen._

_When the Queen turned from her window and saw Death, she became fearful, and tears came to her eyes, since she knew she would die. But Death, who had intended to take her then and there, felt swayed by her great beauty and offered her a deal._

_"Noble Queen: bow to me, and renounce your husband," said Death, "For in a time, I shall kill him and take his heart from his chest to my country on a pike. Better that you never live to see those days, than to suffer for years before I return for you."_

_But the Queen was a wise and clever woman, well known for her counsel, and replied, "Sir Death, if you will give me a fortnight to prepare, I will gladly go with you. But first, I must pack and collect my servants and tell my husband that I am going to see my sister. On the tenth night, call off your attack on the palace, that my knights will relax and I may slip through one of the secret doors and join you in no-mans-land."_

_Placated, Death agreed, and went on his way._

_Later that night, the Queen went to her husband and told him all that transpired with Death. The King was greatly troubled, but praised his wife for her loyalty._

_"Yet, for all the wonder that you stir in my heart, Death will come for you in a fortnight, and I will surely die. For either he pierces my heart with his sword when I stand betwixt you, or he shall overpower me and take you with him, which is the worst injury that Death can render me."_

_But the Queen stroked his cheek and comforted him with these words, "Fear not, my husband, for I have spoken with He That Rules Our Hearts, and He has whispered in my ear. There is a cure for our dear Sir Death."_

_When the King had heard this, he became overjoyed, and urged his wife to tell him where such a cure was held._

_"Listen well, for these are all the things that our Emperor has shown to me. To the North, there is great range of mountains that stretch from the West to the East," said the Queen, "And at the highest peak, there is a cave. Within this cave, there are three brothers- Creatures from the Magic Lands called dryads. One of these dryads will know about the cure. He will show you where it is."_

_Kissing his wife, the King turned and immediately gathered his knights for travel to the Northern Mountains that stretched from the West to the East._

_And the King took with him these; The good Malfi of Stormness Head that brought fleece and smoked meats, Sentenn of the Amber Quarry that brought straight arrows and longbows, Joniesh Fleet of the Delta Coast, taught by mermaids and waters about the stars and the movement of the heavens, and the young ward Jaeden whom the King and Queen loved as their own._

_And these four were chosen for the company of the King, for their reputations as men of honor and bravery._

_The party journeyed for many days until they came upon a bridge woven of vines and owned by an old dwarf called Yelton-Ori._

_"Good cousin, pray let us cross your bridge," said the King, "For we have traveled many days and still seek our quest's end."_

_"As with everything, the crossing costs an equal price," replied the dwarf. "To save a life, one must give a life. From you sire, I require your firstborn son."_

_The King was furious, and immediately drew his sword, for it had eluded his mind at that moment that the young Jaeden was not his true son. But the King loved him with all of his being, and so he prepared to do battle with the dwarf._

_Well Yelton-Ori was wily, with traps and speaking creatures at his hand to attack the King. He sent serpents and spiders and all creeping things at the King's feet, and at the King's head he sent crows and mockingbirds and hornets. He laughed at the King until the buttons over his wide belly burst and the frizzled grey beard around his plump mouth was covered in spit._

_But while the mischievous creature was laughing, the young Jaeden (who was quick in mind) took from the bridge a length of vine, and from the ground the bough of a yew, and from a hornet, its stinger. And he fitted these so that they fired the hornet's dart at the dwarf from across the bridge._

_The stinger struck him in the neck, and the wily Yelton-Ori was so surprised, that he turned angrily on the beasts that swarmed the King, saying, "A pact I had made with you, and yet you attack me? Traitors, I'll kill you all!" And he tried to swat at them with his hands, but they quickly became enraged, turning on him and driving him down the mountain side until the party from Archenland could hear his screams no more._

_And so the Archenlanders crossed the bridge, but it was many days before sunlight could find them again in the crags of the mountainside._

_Yet on the fifth day, they came to a cave, and the King stopped the party to dismount and continue on foot, for the cave was low and partially covered by wood. It was in this cave that Immortality lived, and she hated dear Sir Death._

_When the King and his men saw her, they bowed low, for she was hauntingly fair and a dangerous enchantress in her own right._

_"Idunn," the King beseeched her, and this was her name in Archenland, "I have travelled far on behalf of my beloved Wife, who even now holds off Sir Death on the battlefield. I beg you- stave him so that he may not visit her on the tenth night of her promise."_

_At first, Idunn would not consider it, for the Queen, despite all of her cleverness, had made a Vow to join Death on the tenth night. But then Idunn looked at Jaeden, whose youth and beauty matched her own, and she offered the King a deal._

_"Leave me your son," she asked, "That I might teach him of Magics and how to live forever, so that he might stay with me as my companion. Then, I will grant your wife the gift of immortality."_

_And Jaeden, who was also taken with Idunn, begged his father to consent to the match._

_But the King would not consent to the union._

_So Idunn made to smile sweetly at the King. She promised that as long as Idunn was the Queen of Narnia, his wife would never fall to Sir Death._

_But woe to the Queen of Archenland! This curse would surely haunt her for decades to come, for at the very moment that Idunn spoke, a great wailing filled the sky of Archenland, and their kind and beautiful Queen was _transformed_._

_But the King knew not what Idunn had done to the Queen, and late in the night, she summoned the young Jaeden with Magic. And Jaeden went to her and she trained him in her ways, which were bent and evil and led to the downfall of Narnia._

_In her slyness, Idunn gave the King a small herb- a flower called the Winter's Teeth, and told him it would drive away Sir Death. The King took the plant and put it in his satchel, eager to return to his wife before the tenth night._

_But in his haste, the King did not see Jaeden slip away with the Enchantress. And so the Prince of Archenland was forever lost, with no account to explain his fate but for the whispers of magic beasts beyond the northern mountains..._

"_The End." _

Susan takes a deep swallow of long-cold coffee and rubs at her eyes. Behind her, Lucy breathes deeply in a thick pile of the softest furs, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and the day is deep beyond the covered windows. They haven't stayed apart for long, since Edmund left.

"It was a placebo," Susan murmurs around the mug's rim, underlining _Winter's Teeth. _She returns (for the umpteenth time) to the beginning where the Queen of Archenland had told her own husband about a cure from three dryads; a plan revealed by the Emperor Himself.

Susan sighs, "_Brothers_," and circles the word twice, setting the cup hard on the desk, leaning back in an un-ladylike way to stretch and yawn and rub both hands over her face, which feels stiff with concentration.

If Winter's Teeth was a placebo, how, then, had Death been forced from Archenland's borders? Was it the three dryad brothers, after all? Neither account (not the Archenland tale, not the Master Librarian's first-hand account) mentioned a _resolution _of the sickness. What the first-hand account _did_ reveal was the identity of Idunn, who was better known as a White Witch than a sorceress in Narnia. Jadis had stolen into the borders after her apprentice and sometime-lover, Jaeden, had struck down the Tree which had once stood tall on the edge of the country. With the Tree of Protection dead, she marched across and set her magic loose on all of Narnia.

A hundred years of Winter.

Yet every one of the Narnians remembered that beginning. There had been no births after Jadis took over. There had been no deaths, but for the ones Jadis had turned to stone or murdered by her Fell. And, in some ways, it was almost like no time had passed for them at all.

How did the Narnians know how time had passed, then?

_'She told them.'_

Susan sits back, surprised at her own thoughts. Because it makes perfect sense and stays perfectly in-character with what she knows about Jadis. The White Witch _would _have been the sort of person to let her subjects understand what she was doing to them. One hundred years of Winter, under her command, never aging, and they with no hope to age beyond a life as Jadis' subject? It would be a type of hell for them. They were just as frozen as the Narnians turned to stone. Locked in time, never moving forwards, while the rest of the world barreled ahead of them.

Despite herself, Susan wraps her robes tighter around her shoulders.

Wasn't there that residual magic that had Peter worried and hopeful about finding Winter's Teeth to the West? Magic left over from Jadis, keeping the Winter strong to the West?

'_The moon seems off_," Lucy had said.

Were Edmund and Peter locked in time, now? Trapped in the same curse as their Narnian subjects had been for so many years? Did they think too many days had passed, or none at all? How worried they must be!

"Don't be worried," murmurs Susan, closing her eyes. She brings her hands together, wringing a little, and leans forward so that her forehead bumps her white fingers. "Aslan, please don't let them worry. Please, just bring them home to us, safe."

_Oh, Aslan. Please just bring them home, safe._

Two arms wrap around her from behind, soft and warm from sleep. They lock her hands in prayer and hold her still while a small bowing mouth plants a kiss on her cheek.

Lucy squeezes her sister tighter and leans her head into the crux of Susan's long neck, sighing. "Please don't worry, Su. It's going to be all right."

"Another dream?"

The younger sister shakes her head. Her red hair mixes with the raven waterfall of Susan's. "But whenever I start to worry, I think of the very first message Aslan sent us."

"_When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone,_

_Sit at Cair Paravel in throne_

_The evil time will be over and done," _Susan recalls softly. "I know. But we've defeated the Witch already."

"Not yet," Lucy says. "Not until every last bit of her is destroyed and uprooted. Not until Peter and Edmund find the cure."

* * *

**A/N:**

**This chapter reads a little like a Narnian textbook, so sorry for that. On the other hand, Susan deserves some kind of Sherlockian award for all the mysteries she's unraveling in a few hours time.**

**Yes! The Winter's Teeth was a false lead Peter and Edmund are following, something that Jadis herself used to get rid of the Archenland King. If you'll notice, his Queen didn't exactly come out of that little scenario healed. More of a Hag, actually. As for the actual cure- there definitely is one. More on that later.**

**Questions, comments, or questions? Please PM, email, or review. I'd be more than happy to answer, even if I do so in a highly cryptic manner.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	16. white: A Change of View

**MONOCHROME**

**part two: white**

**Chapter Sixteen: A Change of View**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I want to own Narnia so badly, I'd trade my three siblings for it. Or, you know, for candy.**

* * *

_"At evening they return, they growl like a dog, and go all around the city. They wander up and down for food and howl if they are not satisfied," Psalm 59:14-15_

* * *

_The key is speed_, I think as I watch the crisp white apple core, _and Edmund certainly has that_.

I am sitting on the Edge, bundled in borrowed fur and hugging one knee to my chest with my good arm. The other presses against my heart, barely fisted, bandaged tightly and sore, but filled with the emanating warmth from Edmund's magic Coal. I have to balance himself to keep myself from falling over the ice-slick drop. Winter tumbling snow into the golden leaves of Autumn, damp with dew.

_Speed_, I think again. _How _much speed, precisely? A few hours there, a few days here? Or a few seconds there and a few years here? Or had Edmund gotten lost, gotten injured, gotten back to the Cair to see Lucy one last time...?

But Edmund had said, "_I'll be right back" _like he always does before an outing. A grin, a pat on the shoulder, and he's out of Sansey in a blink. And all I can do is believe that my little brother will return for me again, food and victory in tow. Maybe Edmund hasn't even taken his first step into the Autumn of the Western Wood. Maybe he's still looking around, eyes moving at the speed of tectonic plates, inch by inch, leaves hovering in midair, all the world one large still life. How long was the last time for him? Seconds before he realized he'd forgotten his gloves? How many weeks did I drive myself into despair over his fate?

What really makes my brain steam is trying to imagine how _I_ must look to the outside world. Am I a blur of motion? A gust of wind? Do I move at all, or is my stillness for the past few moments enough to make me appear, like a phantom, staring out into nothing? I really don't know. All I know is that the apple core, bone white in the red and orange leaves, is as fresh and new as the day Edmund threw it out.

Time on that side of the Edge has one consistency: it always moves slower than the time in Sansey. Here in this self-sustaining loop of never-changing days, piled onto days like snow banks crushed under ice. Unnatural light followed only by unnatural dark, the distant sun (rising or setting?) bleeding over the rust and copper Woods. Countable days, countable weeks, and all the outside world standing completely, picturesquely still. Like magic.

How had Edmund put it?

_'Like stone.'_

Releasing my leg so that it dangles and throwing myself onto my back, the snow around me crunches loudly and contently. I bury myself in it, sinking, disappearing, caving through white into the eerie blue shade of the bank. Some snow brushes off the edges of my imprint and drifts across the bridge of my nose, cheerful and cold. My nose wriggles like it has a sneeze.

Susan would understand all of this better. As it is, I still have no idea how any of this is _possible_, but Edmund seems to take it in stride, and the Narnians of Sansey Gardens are well adjusted to life in perpetual Winter, because it's _safe _here. They are all refugees of the Wood. They are all Narnians on the run from the Fell that haunt the West. They mill around their camp, trading stories, digging beneath the snow to reach the old Trees buried deeply underneath. There are a few "bushes" used as markers, and every time another snowstorm blows through, they rearrange the tents based on where the tips of the Trees peek through.

They keep me and Edmund in the middle tent, which is bigger than all the others. We don't really need it as much as, say, Ethelbert. I don't take up much space, and Edmund takes up even less because he's rarely in Sansey anyways. Always running some errand or another for the residents.

I throw an arm up over my eyes, blocking out the sun, melting the snow on my sleeve against my hot eyelids.

"Please, sweet Lion, keep him out of trouble..."

"Trouble?" asks a voice.

And then the Coal _throbs _against my heart and I barely have time to move before a heavy blow falls where my head had been moments before.

The _crack_ is stupendous. It must have struck solid rock.

I lurch to my feet, blood pumping and Coal fuming. I have no weapons. My left hand is awkward to move in defense and attack. I could use my legs, if the ground weren't so uneven and the muscles there weren't so flaccid.

Again!

The strike comes from the side, aiming for my unprotected face. It clips my cheek, but I manage to wobble under it, intending to bowl forwards and knock my opponent off of the ground and onto their back-

- But even after "weeks" of recovery, I'm still too slow.

They revert the motion of their attack at the last moment. The crutch hits me full across the throat and I'm flipped onto my back, breathless and coughing, and I can feel my victor looming over me, disappointed and not a little smug about their victory.

"_You're_ going to need to pray for a miracle, if you want to live."

I peek up with one eye. Upside-down, the large frown looks rather like a smile. I imagine that my own grin must look like a very fierce scowl.

"I'm sure Edmund has that covered."

"Not nearly well enough," Lummus harrumphs.

Lummus is not amused by my levity, but that's not very new- _Nothing _phases the old Faun Captain. From what I have heard from the other Narnians, Lummus was once a very terrifying soldier in Aslan's army before he lost his leg in battle. Edmund would say that Lummus is terrifying anyway; he has thick, dark eyebrows that are shaped in a natural look of mean suspicion. His arms are thick with muscle, his black eyes like razor-sharp daggers. And, as if he needs it, he seems to have mastered the ability to sneak up on certain Sons of Adam with crutches.

He stares me down. "I told you not to stray from camp."

"I know." I would like to say that I am sorry, but cannot muster the emotion from under a bruised ego. "I'm watching for Edmund."

"There are plenty of Narnians already doing that. Move."

As usual, his tone offers no argument. I move. I stagger up the sloping bank towards the tented outlines, Coal pulsing, and feel a little extra energy enter my legs as I go. I can hear Lummus behind me, the _rackety-tack_ of his stilted step, his crutches swinging his weight only through the use of his massive arms.

Ethelbert, towering and watery-eyed, greets us as we approach.

"High King Peter, your well-esteemed Magnificence, you are most welcome back. Though you had parted but for minutes, we of Sansey have felt the loss in the deepest reaches of our bones. To be separated, again would leave us in such-"

"-You worried the lot of them," Lummus growls.

I have enough kingly grace to know when to look properly scolded. And I do feel a bit repentant for worrying Ethelbert in particular- the grand Moose has played a large part in bringing me back from the dead. Even going so far as to carry me on his back all the way from the Cauldron Pool, and nursing me back to health after that. As a Gardener, he certainly knows his herbs, even if his medical instructions could be a little verbose for Edmund's liking.

"I'm very sorry that my actions have upset you." I bow gingerly around my wounded arm, feeling the pull in the muscles of my high shoulder. "But," I continue, mostly for Lummus' benefit, "I will watch for Edmund until he returns."

Lummus' face twitches, either into a smirk or into a scowl, I can't tell. I do know that a being who wasn't desensitized to that sort of ire would gladly flee from the look he unleashes on me now. As it is, I think that Edmund makes much scarier faces.

_'Aslan, please, he's only ten years old...'_

"What nobility!" Ethelbert bursts out, clearly moved by my vow. "What Kingly grace!" Indeed, he is _so _moved that fat tracks of tears are streaming down his Moosey face.

Lummus grunts. "Enough. Enough of that, Bert." He turns on me. "Now look what you've done! It's hard enough trying to get him to shut up half the time."

"What _Magificence!"_

"_Bert- _Honestly. And you!" Lummus barks. "You're barely strong enough to stand, let alone weather this cold. And I don't care how many furs you put on or what magic items you have stuffed up your sleeves. You're going to stay put if I have to bolt you to your tent, understood?"

Other Narnians, mostly Dryads, a few Birds and smaller Animals, can be seen around Ethelbert's broad back. They stare unabashedly at me, whispering among themselves. I have to look away first, finding Lummus' sharp eyes a great relief.

"Can I at least help with the chores?"

"We're not having a repeat of yesterday, Son of Adam."

I frown. "What happened yesterday?" The events were a little fuzzy, now that I thought about it.

Lummus takes a very deep breath and holds it. I decide I've pressed as far as I can for one day.

"You'll tell me if Edmund returns?"

"Not if you don't _move_."

I have to hang my head to hide another smile and nod as I back up and turn towards the large tent that Edmund and I share. Lummus' and Ethelbert's voices fade with the growing distance into snowfall and the beating of my heart seems to throb with the gusts.

Our tent sits on the only flat surface Sansey has to offer, a ring of Oak "bushes" sprouting up around it. Most of the time, when I'm not practicing one-handed swordplay with Rhindon, I stay here to "rest." Naturally, due to the days upon days of "resting" I have come to know the interior very well. There are two pallets here. One is mine and the other stays almost continually neat. Unused. It gathers stray snow from the sweeping winds outside, with only the barest of impressions in its folds. Even when Edmund is with us, he barely rests.

Time; far too much of it.

Time; far too little of it.

Here I am, with all the time in the world and my little sister is dying from the scattering hours.

I look to Edmund's pallet for another moment before stripping off my largest fur covering so that I don't start boiling in the magicked heat of the tent. We've discovered that if we put the Coal into the giant cauldron hanging in the center, the warmth immediately erupts into a stream of heat that rolls outward, upwards, out of the hole in the ceiling like a plume. It's better than having to start a fire, in any event.

"Home sweet home."

I wonder what I'll do for the next however many days, waiting for my little brother to return. There's little else but sleeping, eating, and waiting. Of course, the Narnians have ways of passing the time. What they lack in battle, the make up for in intellect, and with that sort of mental capacity, they excel in story telling. They have one hundred years of stories, of culture, of hopes. They are eager to educate me in the ways of the old Kings, of the old times, and I am eager to listen. They have information that no one at the Cair or in Archenland are privy to. Information that I sorely wish I had had before starting this asinine quest for a cure.

_And Jaeden drew the lightning to his wretched fingertips," _I repeat, finding rhythm in the old tales of Ethelbert's old tongue. "_The Tree was cleft in twain, the very earth of Narnia trembled before Winter's Teeth."_

I can't help the bitter twist to the words, or the hot curl in my heart.

Winter's Teeth is not a cure after all; it's the death blow.

**OooOooOooOooO**

_In the dream, there is Edmund, and there is someone like Edmund. _

_They stand face-to-face, mirror images, white skin glaring white skin, dark eyes reflecting dark eyes. _

_In profile, Peter can only pick out his brother because he looks afraid, staring at the twin image with the deepest revulsion, leaning back and pulling away, but denied escape because he is held fast by a mirrored hand. _

_In the dream, Peter lays a hand on his brother's shoulder with his left hand, the doppelgänger with his injured right. He fully intends to pull them apart, separate his brother from whatever it is that frightens him, when a female figure emerges from the mist across from him._

_The four of them form the four points of a compass, spinning without direction, drawn magnetically to one another._

_ Across from Peter, a woman's face hovers in the twilight grey, half haggard, inhuman, and the other half lovely and pure. She rests a gentle hand on the doppelgänger._

_And on Edmund, she rests a taloned grip that draws blood._

_"Mine," she says. Her voice is in halves, soothing and scratching, low and shallow. _

_A vice-like grip on his arm- Edmund's hand, wrenching, desperately pulling at him. And a low, gasping breath that squeezes Peter's mind through a dizzy funnel._

_And suddenly Peter feels something shift inside of himself, rising to the surface like a roaring beast, mindless cunning, the thrumming of battle drums filtering into his ears, and against his will, he feels his mouth move into a terrible snarl. He can almost taste her blood._

_"Then come and take him!"_

**OooOooOooOooO**

I open my eyes to unnaturally blinding light and unnaturally loud voices.

The Coal has filled the tent with African warmth and I can feel the damp of sweat making its way down the side of my scalp. I've kicked off my covers in my sleep, sprawled out over the two sleeping spaces. My left hand is gripping the animals skins so tightly that my knuckles are bone white and the feeling has fled from my fingers. Slowly, I turn my head and rub my wrist against my bleary eyes. I yawn in the hot air, blinking.

As I become more aware, I hear the tell-tale voice of a Mountain Goat- a sort of nasal, warbling bleat and in another moment, I remember that Edmund left Sansey Gardens with a Billy in his band.

It only takes a few uncoordinated seconds after that for me to one-handedly don my furs, snatch the Coal, and hobble out into the snow-bleached landscape. The icy air hits me like a physical blow, I stagger a painful gulp of air before squinting across the glare from the ice to find a solid knot of Narnians congregated towards the Edge. Lummus, Ethelbert, several of the Dryads and Deer. The bleating Billy, laughing with a Badger. And there, taller than most of them and blotting out the blinding white of Sansey Gardens, Edmund stands out like ink on a page, covered from head to toe in black and grey skins. A shock of wolf fur covers his head and obscures his face from me.

Before I can even call out, Edmund turns, like he had sensed my presence from afar. Flipping back the thick hood, he grins with all of his teeth and lifts Rhindon over his dark head with one arm.

_Victory_.

I laugh aloud in delight, breath leaving me in ghostly vapours, continuing my stumbling path down the embankment. The band of Narnians move towards the camp with their spoils, other residents coming to help carry the burden.

I can see Edmund's eyes slanted with a mimicked smile, complete and honest. He looks healthy, uninjured. No hitches in his motions or stutters in his expressions. As he lowers Rhindon to his side, the small, sleek head of a Weasel appears beside Edmund's cheek, blinking in the bright light and whispering something into his ear. Whatever is said, it makes Edmund roll his eyes and sheath the Christmas sword across his back.

I arrive just in time to hear Edmund reply in a rather sour voice;

"Not if _I _can help it."

"Help what?"

"Nothing," Edmund says quickly. The Weasel slithers back into the warmth of his hood as Edmund turns from Lummus to face me fully, voice falling into a monotonous list of facts, drilling off information bullet point by bullet point. "We found all of the required supplies. Food, dry wood, skins, even a few apples. Mushrooms, berries, and bark."

Something about that makes me smile, and I have a faint impression of spicy-sweet juice in my mouth. "Oreius would be proud."

"Took about five hours to collect everything, but it should have been less."

Five hours there and five days here. Does that mean time is starting to be easily rationed by hour to day, or is it more complicated than that?

"You did run into trouble, then," I say.

Edmund scowls. "Wolves. You won't remember this, but there were a few sniffing around while we were on the run."

_On the run... _

Edmund makes it sound so very _undangerous_. From what I can recall from that painful time, swinging between heated oblivion and cool awareness, everything was hurry and worry and danger. What I have are snapshots of Edmund breathing harshly, fire and the heavy stench of soured iron, of a small weight covering me, the world shifting all around me, and the fierce whisper that should have been a scream. The desperate cry for me to _wake up, just wake up, Peter please oh Aslan WAKE UP..._

"Wolves." Just the thought of Edmund facing more than one makes my stomach knot up terribly. I look to the others, and it is silently agreed; we won't be worrying the other residents with this information just yet. "How many?"

"Twenty-five or so. Maybe more. They're gathering, forming alliances with all of the available packs."

"Wolves don't do that," Lummus says abruptly. "Not on that scale."

"Not of their own accord," Edmund allows. "But they've been known to do it before."

Ethelbert and Lummus look to one another in question and I realize suddenly, like a shock, that neither of them know a thing about the Secret Police, or the Hunt, or the Battle of Beruna. They've been trapped here since the beginning of things, nearly one hundred years ago, snowed in and locked up with powerful dark magicks. Dark magicks that are, for some reason, still in effect.

_Could it be the White Witch, rising to power again...?_

"It's not," Edmund says simply. He shrugs a little when I look at him. "I know what you're thinking, but it's not."

_How _does he know? He doesn't even look upset by the idea, just maybe a little tired, a little weary. The Lion pommel stares at me over his shoulder like it could speak a thousand words, mouth open but hesitating.

"How long have you been able to walk on your own, anyway?" Edmund continues, stepping back to appraise me with an up-and-down look.

Lummus lets out a short bark. "He _shouldn't_ be walking on his own yet."

"But I've been _able to_ for two days now," I cut in.

"Two _days?"_

_"_You've been gone for five, Ed."

He stares at me. "Five hours there, five days here?"

I nod.

"Well," my brother says, suddenly sullen and looking all of five with the huffy way that he crosses his arms. "That explains why you're suddenly taller."

"I'm not taller," I say, surprised. "Am I?"

"Yes," he grouses. "By _at least _three inches."

I grin widely. "Well that explains why you're suddenly _shorter_."

Edmund says nothing at all for a moment, he dark eyes digging sharply into mine. I feel a sharp _pang_ in my gut and wonder if I went too far too soon. His hand rises in a fist, it hovers in the air at his side like he doesn't quite know what to do with me. Then, abruptly, his index finger pops out of the fist and jabs in my direction, right under my nose. He demands, quite seriously, "Can I hit you?" Turning to Lummus and Ethelbert. "Can I hit him?"

Ethelbert immediately launches into a worried monologue about friendship and brotherhood and injuries beyond physicality.

I laugh. Edmund scowls at me and I laugh harder.

"I don't want you messing up all my hard work," Lummus replies shortly.

"I wouldn't hit him _that _hard!"

"Like you could even reach," I retort.

**OooOooOooOooO**

Edmund had eaten a brief meal before he left, and although he had only been on the outside of the Edge for five hours (by his reckoning), he acts as though he hasn't seen food in nearly a week.

I watch from my pallet as he practically gorges himself on our portion of whatever he and his band had gathered, apple after apple after apple and every edible plant in between. I really wish that we had some sort of meat, or even bread, to give him. I know it would hold him over longer, keep him from leaving again for a longer period, but there is no game that the Wolves haven't snatched up, and bread doesn't grow on trees inside or outside of Sansey. Eventually, he slows down and looks up at me, remarking, "You're not eating."

I shrug- One-shouldered. It pulls a little on my right side, but not too badly, and I manage it without a wince.

Edmund pops a few berries into his mouth and chews while he gulps down water. His darks eyes flick up only once. "Sitting on the Edge again?"

My fingers find the growing welt across the back of my neck from where Lummus took me down. It's mostly hidden beneath furs and the hair along the nape of my neck. I suppose it makes sense why the band thought Edmund would be helpful to their scavenging; Edmund has the vision of an Owl.

"Not much else to do," I admit.

"Lummus doesn't want you to go there."

"I know. He'll get over it." At least, I hope he will.

Edmund says, "I don't want you there, either."

"That sounds like an order."

"It _is _an order," he snaps.

"That's not how it works," I point out. "Chain of command follows from the Emperor, to Aslan, me, and _then _you and the girls."

"_Unless_," says Edmund, "the High King is injured, ill, or otherwise incapable of making lawful decisions, etcetera, etcetera, mentally deficient, etcetera etcetera, under aggressive persuasion, force, control, etcetera, in which cases command follows to the immediate eligible ruler, until the High King reclaims his facilities, or, if the High King passes away by non-nefarious means, is taken to Aslan's country, or secedes the throne, the power remains in said successor's hands until death, secedes, etcetera."

"You," I say, after a rather pregnant pause, "should not know that entire section by heart."

"And you," Edmund returns, "should keep your head down. It's bad enough you're barely on the mend- Waving yourself in the face of our enemy isn't exactly the smartest course of action."

"You're... not a smart course of action."

"... Go back to sleep, Peter."

I throw my pillow at him. He ducks easily under it- I still haven't got a handle on this left-handedness.

We spend a short time just sitting and listening to the company of each other, warming up to the idea of being around someone of like form, if not like mind. Something is rising in me with every moment I'm in front of him. It burns in my chest, tightens my stomach. It should be relief. It should be worry. But it's something far stronger than either.

"I won't be much help if you choke, you know."

Edmund flings the pillow back and it connects with my head, though not hard. I laugh around a mouthful of goose feathers, glad that I was still quick enough to catch the glimpse of a smile, like white lightning, splitting Edmund's dark expression.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Special thanks to OlaNaTungee for the BEAUTIFUL cover art. I love the way you draw Brigid- she looks like a thing of nightmares.**

**The time-freeze acting on Sansey is a little like the one that took over Narnia for 100 years, but with some major differences. We'll be getting into that later. Sansey is a MUY importante setting. **

**A little reprieve for our boys there, but I've got to say that it won't last long. The wolves are circling and they have a new boss. I don't think I have to spell out _who_ has the magical prowess to pull something like that...**

**Rising action time! We'll be seeing the majority of the second half of Monochrome from Peter's POV.**

**Questions, comments, concerns? Please message me via PM, review, or now on my facebook page. The link is on my profile!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


	17. white: The Reaching Red

**MONOCHROME**

**part two: white**

**Chapter Seventeen: The Reaching Red**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Stop making me write these, Copyright Goblins.**

* * *

_"Surely at the commandment of the Lord came this upon Judah, to remove them out of his sight, for the sins of Manasseh, according to all that he did;_

_And also for the innocent blood that he shed: for he filled Jerusalem with innocent blood; which the Lord would not pardon," _

_2 Kings 24: 3-4_

* * *

**Sansey Gardens, the Western Wood. Narnia. Year 1000**

**(?) Days Since the High King's Departure**

There are moments (if, indeed, moments exist at all in Sansey Gardens) when Edmund isn't risking his life by scavenging in Wolf territory and Lummus is not satisfied by a single pupil. And when these two events eclipse, Lummus decides to pit us against one another.

Honestly, Edmund and I are always a little relieved by the activity. We have been trained, after all, to fight as partners. We relish the reawakening of our muscle memory, fine-tuned by the good General Oreius in the small hours of the mornings. The drills, the movement, the familiar mistakes and surprising advances are all a little like being home again.

But I make it sound as if we are evenly matched; the reality of it is that Edmund could very easily beat me into the ground. His arms are bigger from carrying Rhindon; mine own are smaller from atrophy and sickness. By the end of our sessions, he has to help me walk back to the tent. He's come a long way from that little boy who fought at Beruna only four months ago.

The "dawn" after the foragers return, Lummus rouses us.

Or, rather, he rouses _me; _Edmund only lifts the covers enough to squint and make a sort of primal hissing sound before burrowing deeper. His snores resume almost immediately.

"Nice try, Son of Adam," Lummus says, rapping the rumbling pile with his crutch. A growl answers him.

I rub at my eyes and blink, trying to wake. A large yawn tears its way out of my mouth. "Couldn't we have _five_ more...?"

Suddenly, I am warm and my muscles are lax and I can hear Edmund yelling hoarse threats which, for some reason, don't overly alarm me.

Then I, too, am rapped with the crutch. I pop back upright with a groan, a new dream flickering out of my mind. I would gladly trade everything I own for another hour or so of sleep, but I gather myself and kick off the furs to let cool air rush over me. A bleary outline of my brother stands across the tent, dressing. The flap of the tent flickers as Lummus leaves us.

"Morning," I say.

"No," grouses Edmund. "No, not morning. _Night_. It's bloody night and I'd like to bloody sleep for a good fifteen hours."

I frown at him. "You're in a surprisingly good mood." It's not often that Edmund can form sentences upon regaining consciousness.

Edmund tosses at pillow in my general direction, but sorely misses. "Shut up."

We stumble out into the deep snow.

Edmund makes me wait while he goes back into the tent for the snowshoes he made. They are crude and a little bulky, but he's very proud that they work. When he comes back out, he delays us again by insisting that I wear them today. The argument is brief; Edmund is more ready for confrontation in the early hours than I am. In the end, I'm the one that makes us late, shuffling laboriously along in the ridiculous shoes while Edmund ambles at my side, lifting his legs in high-steps to work through the hip-high drifts. Rhindon weighs him backwards just enough to make his movements awkward and processed. It takes nearly all of his limited brainpower to concentrate on getting to the Edge.

"Take you that long to do your hair?" Lummus greets us. He puffs at a long pipe, a single orange scarf providing him warmth. At his side is a deerskin bundle, sitting lightly atop the snow. Beyond him, the Wood is eerie and still and red with autumn.

Edmund scowls. His trousers are mostly soaked through and shivers are already racing up and down his body. He grits his teeth and helps me take off the snowshoes. "After the storm last night, I'd thought we'd sleep in this morning."

It isn't likely. Lummus is, in some ways, even fiercer than Oreius. His lip curls and he blows a smoke ring at Edmund's head.

Edmund sneezes.

"What's in the bag?" I ask.

Lummus clamps the pipe tightly with his teeth and opens the bag. Inside is a fine bow, made of a light and supple wood, and the arrows have steel heads, their fletching a bold crimson.

"Hey," says Edmund. "Our archers used those. At Beruna."

_And Susan_, I think. I can still see scarlet feathers shivering in Ginnabrik's short, breathless chest.

"As far as I know," Lummus says, "Narnia has been using the same bows and arrows since King Frank. They were given to the Narnian army by the Hamadryads."

"Oak Dryads." I look at the wood and the fingers of my right hand itch, like they can feel the pull of the arrow. "Are they made from Oaks?"

He pats the wood. "It's the magic of the Dryads that lets the wood bend like it does. Normal oak shatters. Too porous. If you go to a country like Archenland or Calormen, you'd have to make bows from yew."

Edmund and I exchange looks. It is an unspoken truth that the Yew trees are some of the more pitiable of our people. They can never make up their minds or stick with a decision, being terribly flexible in every respect- their bendable morals were what led them to work for the Witch during the Hundred-Year Winter. But they're so pathetic and eager to please that no one can find it in their heart to berate them for it.

"Bully for Archenland," says Edmund. "What are you doing with them?"

Lummus throws him the bundle. Reflexively, Edmund catches.

"Take your stance," Lummus tells Edmund, who looks down at the bow like its suddenly turned into a snake-bouquet. He very nearly drops it.

Edmund looks at me.

I nudge him. "Go ahead."

"Can we not?"

"Oh, _go on_, Edmund."

Edmund face pinches. Slowly, he pulls the bow out and tries to string it. He misses the notch twice, and grows more nervous the longer Lummus silently watches. Picking up an arrow and fiddling with it, cold fingers stumbling along the shaft, Edmund's face, which is nearly covered by his hood, turns redder and redder. He looks like he's going to explode.

And I remember, in a rushing second; Edmund is terrible at archery.

But he takes his stance, regardless. Even I can tell that he's doing everything wrong. As red as his face is, he's wiped all emotion from it. He stands awkwardly but tall, staring ahead at absolutely nothing. The steel head of the arrow swings out to the side and he jerks it back.

"Sweet Lion," Lummus mutters, aghast. His pipe hangs limply between his lips. "Who in cold Cal taught you _that?_"

Edmund has no response. His shoulders are starting to twitch from keeping the longbow drawn for so long, and a muscle jumps under his eye.

"It's not that bad," I say, feeling a deep needling at the remark. "Better, even."

Lummus circles Edmund, completely disregarding the sharp and ragged arrowhead coiled between them. "Your shoulders are too high. Your grip is all wrong. Your stance is more for swordplay than archery."

"Edmund's a natural swordsman." I glance at him, but he gives no sign of hearing me.

"And what's this?" Lummus grabs hold of Edmund's arms, jerking them around. "Hold them,_ here_, Son of Adam."

"For how long?" grits Edmund.

Another realization takes me; "The bow is too big for him, Lummus."

"Is not." But Edmund grinds out the words. His whole back is shaking.

I step up to his side, reaching, "Here Just put it down, we'll find you a different one."

Edmund's knuckles whiten; the force of his grip makes the wood creak. He's bitten into his lip. "It's fine."

"Just give it here, idiot-" I begin, but Lummus suddenly moves on Edmund's other side and the bow _twangs_, a hissing whistle vanishes into the trees beyond the Edge. For a moment we three watch the trunks and limbs, searching vainly for a glimpse of the red-fletched arrow. Then, Edmund lowers the bow.

"Lummus," Edmund says, "you're hired."

"Hired for what?" Lummus asks.

"Something highly official and having to with archery training that I'll think up later," Edmund grins. "That actually went _straight_!"

"How else would it go?" Lummus demands in alarm, but Edmund ignores him.

"And it _whistled_- Peter-" he turns to me, excitedly, with wide eyes. "Did you hear it?"

Another memory hits me. I see _Edmund, standing at level with the arm of a dusty orange armchair, small fists balled in concentration and lips sticking out like a fish, his eyes large and earnest. My own voice resonates over the scene, my own fingers pointing to my own mouth; You've almost got it, Eddy. Listen, and the low stream of air whistling out of my mouth. You hear that?_

"I heard," I say distantly. Edmund looks at me.

"Your Grand and Royal Majesties!"

Before either of us can speak, Ethelbert bounds through the snow towards us and announces in his lengthy way that breakfast is ready. Edmund helps me tie the snowshoes back on and walks at my side all the way back. We, neither of us, seem to mind the silence for reflection. Edmund is still clutching the bow and I try to reclaim the memory of the two of us being like the normal brothers in my memory.

* * *

Sansey would not be Sansey without its unique propensity for optimism. In the midst of a frozen Winter, now almost one-hundred-and-one-years long, they daily celebrate the gift of life and of endurance with food and song and storytelling for every meal. Twice a "day" we gather by the Fire Pit in the center of the camp. The old Sloth, Yamani hangs from the old flagpole, voice deep and sharp as he regales us with the histories of the ancient rulers and we, after a time, become immersed in the fantastic history.

"-And King Camlann raised his arm, and with the strength of Aslan, he sent the spear clean through the shield!"

"Clean through the shield!" roars the circle of listeners.

"And the Calormenes fled!"

"They fled far!" we shout. The fire pit splits a log and the sparks fly up like fireworks. Lummus leans over his drum, steadily tamping on the skin with the heels of his leathery hands. Across the circle, Ethelbert's massive head bobs in tune, his antlers nearly goring the Dog that sits ahead of him. The rhythm fills us all. We sway as one body, with one mind, the words memorized and expected. Anticipated.

"And on that field, the King alone remained!" Yamani bellows.

"Alone but for the Lion!" Some of the Dogs begin to howl. Edmund, wedged between the Dogs and an old Horse named Anne, throws back his head and mimics them. Anne whickers. The Narnians cheer as Yamani curls upwards in an upside-down bow and stills on his flagpole with a sleepy smile. A sort of comfortable rabble rises as we talk amongst ourselves, waiting for a new story-teller to stand up. There is no rush. The Creatures of Sansey Gardens enjoy simple conversation as much as grand stories, and I find a small, sleak Weasel climbing my good arm.

"Hello," I say, looking at the dark marks around her eyes and recognizing her as the Weasel from Edmund's hood yesterday. "Well met."

She climbs higher until she is wrapped around my neck, little paws catching in the cloth of my shirt.

Only once she is settled does she give a very quiet, "'Lo."

"'Lo," I return. I grin over at Edmund, but he (who is buried under a pile of Dogs that are all yammering out a collection of short stories for him to dissect) does not notice me. It's bright out, if cold, and a patch of blue has frozen over the Sansey sky. I take this as a good omen. "What did you think of the story?"

"Fine," muttered the Weasel. "Just fine."

I can get no more from her and return, bemused, back to watching my brother carry on with the Dogs.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Edmund is saying, wrestling a happy German Shepard off of his legs. "That'll never happen!" A Bulldog bowls him over, thoroughly licking his face.

"Admit it!" the Dogs woof, bounding around him. "Admit it!"

"Never!"

Edmund disappears for another few moments, covered with layers of jumping, wagging canines and a sound like low, boyish laughter is quickly muffled.

The Weasel wriggles on my neck, and I turn to see Ethelbert standing and making his way to the front of the crowd by Yamani. Along his mighty antlers, someone (likely Lummus) helped him to string a series of papers like a veil, which were scribbled on and marked up something dreadful. Whatever story he was going to tell, he had certainly done his research.

"My wonderous and nobly bright friends, brothers, cohorts, listeners, audience-"

Behind him, Lummus taps on his drum and clears his throat.

"-And grandiose guests," Ethelbert finishes delicately, with a sniff. He bows in my general direction, but I very much doubt that he can see me around the papers. "On this fine winter morn', I have carefully selected a series of text which I have recently managed to accumulate for your listening pleasure concerning the wonderous and nobly bright adventures of our very own Majesties, High King Peter the Magnificent and King Edmund the Just from what we have gathered listening to the stories rendered from their own lips and beg you listen well."

He pauses for breath and the Narnians give him a respectful applause of hoofs and paws against the snowy earth.

Edmund sits ram-rod straight and catches my eye- looking as bewildered as I feel. He furrows his eyebrows and mouths, _'__Did you tell Bert anything?"_

I shake my head. Mystified, I turn back to the great Bull Moose as he inhales deeply and begins.

"_In the Ancient Days, when the White Witch stretched her scepter o'er the lands of Narnia, Winter stole us from the world. We lived as timeless ghosts in a bleak and colorless world, and Narnia stood in monochrome."_

_"We stood in monochrome,"_ murmurs the crowd. The energy from earlier has drained. They watch Ethelbert closely, sadly, hungrily.

"_In the Ancient Days, Death was foreign and Life was impossible. There was no choice but the dull, grey continuance. And though we fought, we fought one another more, until we were entwined, and we were the Grey."_

_"We were the grey."_

_"But colour has reached us now." _Ethelbert stamps his hoof, and the crowd softly mimics him. "_Red has reached us here."_

_"We are red."_

A soft hand falls on my shoulder and I startle. Edmund crouches lightly at my side, eyes on Ethelbert.

"I'm going back to the tent, all right?" he says. He squeezes, and I bring up a hand to catch him by the forearm.

"Are you all right?"

He nods. His dark bangs fall over his eyes. "Just a little tired."

"Well, don't go wandering off," I smile, and shake his arm in my grip. I can see a small quirk in the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't last long, and he slips away from me easily.

"_-Upon that bloody field, the red stained every Narnian," _Ethelbert is saying. "_At Beruna, where the Witch charged the Kings-"_

I look sharply back for Edmund, but his back disappears into the tent just as I do. The Narnians are so engaged with Ethelbert's recount of the Battle of Beruna (so poetic and lovely that I know for certain he was not present), that they do not even bother tattooing his words. They sit stock-still, and I feel a warping cold dribble into my gut, hoping against hope that I will not have to hear that story as it was.

"-_And the Just King fell, ran through-"_

My stomach lurches. I stand and make to follow Edmund, until the next words find me, "_Then the High King fell to blows with the Witch."_

The Weasel slides from around my neck and clambers onto my arm, "Your Majesty? What is it?"

What is it? What _was_ it? I can barely listen to Ethelbert over the pounding of my heart, snatches of words mixing with blood-beat and the resounding crash of metal that is pure memory. _Of cat eyes smiling and the furious inferno devouring me from the inside out..._

"Get off me," I croak. Then swallowing, gentler, "Please, go sit with the others. I need- I have to be alone."

The Weasel sadly complies. I feel a sting of pity and some shame, but more so is the need to be away from here and that story. I stumble quietly away from the group, who are too caught-up in the fantasy to pay attention. At first, I intend to go to the tent with Edmund, just to lay eyes on him, to reassure myself (in a way that is really quiet pathetic) that he is safe. But then I master myself. My legs carry me, crunching through deep snow and ice until I am at the Autumn Edge, with the rotting apple core and the frosted leaves undisturbed by time.

'_Red has reached us,' _I think. Red may never leave us.

* * *

For the third time that day, I am shaken roughly awake. Lummus looms over me, his goat-like head and horns lit up by the afternoon sunlight.

"What the _Tash_ do you mean by it?" he shouts almost as soon as I've opened my eyes. He signals to someone behind him and a thunder of footsteps clutter through the snow. He reaches down with one hand and drags me upright. The moment I realize I am soaked through with snow, I begin to shiver and my teeth begin to chatter.

"S-s-sorry," I managed, wobbling onto my legs. "D-d-didn't mean t-to fall asleep."

"Here toss me that, Hookbeak- There," a fluffy, dry blanket buries me, and I snatch at it with a trembling hand, pulling it tightly around my shoulders as I am led back up the slope by what appears to be the whole of Sansey.

"Sorry," I say again. "I just went for a walk. I fell asleep."

Lummus ignores me and waves at the Dogs that circle the Fire Pit. He yells to them, "Found one!"

"We need to dry you off, Majesty," Anne the Horse says, trotting closely at my side. "Let's get you to your tent."

My frozen brain clicks, "Lummus- Who else is missing?"

He pauses long enough to look at me, and I know. Typical Edmund!

"I _told_ him not to wander off!" I growl. "Where's he got off to?"

"Honestly, Your Majesty," admits Lummus, "We had hoped that we'd find you together."

Worry begins to seep past anger. The very feeling I had tried to evade earlier returns at full strength.

"Gather everyone," I say. "Everyone. We'll meet at the fire pit to regroup and form search parties from there. A Dog will go with every group."

"That many Narnians in the Wood, Your Majesty, might not be the safest way to-" begins Lummus.

The Edge cracks, singing with the magic that hold it.

We turn as a group, watching as the barrier between Sansey and the Wood crackles and folds, bending white light into a pallet of rainbows. Watching as the Edge slowly, painstakingly opens upon a pale human hand that tightly grips a red-fletched arrow and drips fresh, burgandy blood onto the snow.

* * *

**A/N:**

**It has been FOREVER and one day since I last updated, ladies and gentlemen. Not only has college life been bizarrely hectic this semester, but I tried to focus on some original works for a while and got a little side-tracked.**

**I'm trying to give the boys a bit of a break this chapter, because of what's coming up. They're not quite up to their typical bromance standard yet. Soon, my fellow Narniacs, soon. **

**Thanks so much for reading, guys! Here's hoping that finals aren't kicking your butts and holiday breaks are almost here!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123 **


	18. white: Ghosts in the Snow

**MONOCHROME**

**part two: white**

**Chapter Eighteen: Ghosts**** in the Snow**

**by Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I actually am C.S Lewis, but you see I was sort of enchanted by this crazy frog-tortilla hybrid that cursed me to be**** a**** young****, ****gorgeous American**** female****. It's bizarre.**

* * *

_"For he is God's servant to do you good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. _

_He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer," _

_Romans 13:4_

* * *

**Sansey Gardens, the Western Wood. Narnia. Year 1000**

**(?) Days Since the High King's Departure**

_"I told him not to wander off!" I growl. "Where's he gone off to?"_

_"Honestly, Your Majesty," admits Lummus, "We had hoped that we'd find you together."_

_Worry begins to seep past anger. The very feeling I had tried to evade earlier returns at full strength._

_"Gather everyone," I say. "Everyone. We'll meet at the fire pit to regroup and form search parties from there. A Dog will go with every group."_

_"That many Narnians in the Wood, Your Majesty, might not be the safest way to-" begins Lummus._

_The Edge cracks, singing with the magic that holds it._

_We turn as a group, watching as the barrier between Sansey and the Wood crackles and folds, bending white light into a pallet of rainbows. Watching as the Edge slowly, painstakingly opens upon a pale human hand that tightly grips a red-fletched arrow and drips fresh, burgundy blood onto the snow._

* * *

**NOW:**

It's not just his hand- Edmund's whole person is dribbling blood onto the white of the ground. As he phases through the Edge and into Sansey, I can see it coats his furs and paints his face as well. The first thing he says when he sees us standing with our mouths agape is, "Hullo. It's not all mine. Did I miss much?"

This does not have the intended effect if, indeed, Edmund had an effect in mind, because in the next second Edmund wavers on his feet and falls to his knees. Hurriedly, the group rushes forward as a wave, catching up Edmund in many hands and paws. My own hand finds him at the shoulder. His dark eyes are unusually wide and glassy and he's shaking much the same way I am.

_Injured_, my mind says, and a feral rage begins to build in my stomach.

"You- Billy- Get some water!" Lummus barks. "And fresh cloths! Mind his head, you lot! Watch your step!"

Wings and legs and hooves are everywhere, lifting my brother easily upwards like the child he is. We move towards camp, a mad menagerie of Animals and Sons of Adam, and I have to fight to stay beside him. Bullying limbs shove at me as we march. Someone's wing batters me in the cheek. A stray claw catches on my trouser leg. I don't notice any of this; the whole of my vision has focused on a single white face and all the rest is drowning around me.

"Edmund." I muscle through to his side. "Ed?"

His head hangs low, feet dragging in the spattered snow as we mount the hill to camp. The fist clenching the red arrow shoots up and his fingers loose enough to dig into my shoulder.

_Pain, _says the feral monster. I grip my brother back as his body suddenly stiffens.

"Stop," Edmund says suddenly. Inhaling, remembering, "Stop, _stop! _Someone- someone needs to- they're _coming_, so someone needs to set up a perimeter- guards- how many weapons do we-?"

His distress is catching; a hunted feeling, like every last ghost is barely a step behind.

"We have it under control, your Majesty," Lummus assures him, he moves back so I can take his place supporting Edmund's side. The weight pulls on my injured shoulder and pain flares up like fireworks in my eyesight, but I find that it focuses me. As we lock eyes, Lummus' gaze tries to impress something upon me, but I am too full of _ferocity _and _Edmund _to notice anything else.

I gather up my brother with my good arm and help him into our tent.

Edmund makes laying him flat a challenge, as he is struggling wildly against me to stay upright. His freed hand pushes hard on my injured shoulder, with his other, he fights against the ground. I grit my teeth against the pain and try to soothe him, ceasing to restrain him. Instead, I pull him forward, running a hand over his matted hair.

"Edmund- _Edmund, stop_. It's me. It's Peter."

"I'm fine," he insists to me, though he doesn't see me. He is shaking all over, fingers bloody over the arrow shaft. "I'm fine, I'm _fine-"_

No one listens. Ethelbert's mighty head fills the tent, as he gives a pair of Dryads instructions on how to use their own bark while several Dogs whine by door, moping in the snow. The shy Weasel from the previous night scurries over the blankets and paws at Edmund's face. He uses his free hand to curl around her and close his eyes. His knuckles turn white around the arrow. "_I'm fine..."_

I sit at his side while they wash his face and hands, and peel off his layers to reveal unbroken skin. Bruises, yes. But no cuts. No stabs. No bites.

Edmund was right, then. Most of it wasn't his. But there was _so much _of it. And now, with his eyes squeezed shut and his skin sickly, all I can see is him as he was then, surrounded by green and covered in red...

My voice comes out strangled and hoarse, "_Look at me_."

When he opens his eyes, I don't see anything else.

"That's it," I say. "That's it, Eddy. Just look at me."

"Stop talking to me like I'm three," he says. But he doesn't look away. In the dimness of the tent, his eyes are fully black. "What happened to you?"

"What?"

"You're wet," he points out, and suddenly I realize that I am dripping: chilled to the bone and shivering feverishly.

"Fell asleep in a snow bank," I recall.

Edmund lets out a shudder. "Snow," he says wearily. "Yes. I remember now. I fell..."

Ethelbert and the Dryads are busy giving orders to other Narnians about raiding the camp for more blankets and furs. Something about Edmund and me and shock. Beyond them, outside, Lummus is yelling at the larger Animals, arming them for whatever force is coming through those trees. I can hear the rattle of iron swords and wooden clubs and the snarl of teeth and a moment later, the Faun's shaggy face appears in the din of the tent.

Lummus' eyes settle on me, his orange scarf swaying. With a single look from him, the others leave the tent. Soon it is only the three of us in the Coal-heated shelter.

"Sire," Lummus says. He looks regretfully at Edmund.

I glance between them. Lummus is grizzled and worried, Edmund breathing a little too quickly.

In a moment, I realize was Lummus wants, and that singular beast, or whatever it is sitting in my heart and causing me such madness, _rumbles, _deep and echoing like an ocean.

"No," I growl low, unspeakable anger growing with every second. "Save your questions. Edmund needs to rest."

"King Edmund," Lummus says, instead, ignoring me. "We need to know what to expect, sire. How many were after you? What do you remember?"

"It's- I- I don't really know. There weren't any-" Edmund swallows and covers his eyes with the crook of his free arm.

I stand between them. "He doesn't have to tell you _anything _right now, Lummus."

"I remember." From beneath his arm, Edmund breathes deeply and begins to laugh. It is an airy, careless, horrid sound and it makes chills race on my spine.

"Sire?" Lummus practically begs him.

"No one," Edmund laughs. "There's no one. No one is coming!" Sliding his arm from his face, he rolls his eyes to the ceiling and stares. Stillness falls over him. The hand that was hold the arrow rolls to the side, limp. Dark blood creeps out onto the snow-packed floor. Then, louder, almost angry, "I was wrong."

I watch Lummus process this. Something like relief rests his weight more firmly on his crutches. But the way his knuckles turn bone white under his shaggy fur does not give me peace. "You were _wrong?"_

"Yes," Edmund says tonelessly. He doesn't look at either of us. "Sorry to worry you," he adds, like an afterthought.

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

It is a mutual agreement between us that Edmund should sleep before we question him.

So, of course, Edmund refuses to sleep. He sits up, arms resting and legs crossed, boring a hole in the wall opposite, listening to Ethelbert's drafty monologue on the health benefits of rest and the nobility of speaking one's mind. Edmund adamantly keeps his silence, even as they the hand that had so fiercely held the arrow. His pupils are blown wide. His skin shines with a sickly sweat. But his presence follows me out of the tent, and even I can sense some sort of message in that, a sort of trust and patience that means _something... _

I leave the tent with Lummus, sucking in the bracing air. He is perturbed by my brother's behavior.

"We don't know how long he was out there," he tells me quietly. "We have no idea what happened to him."

"What do you think happened to him?"

Lummus' eyes are dark. "Your Majesty, if I may be blunt."

"Of course."

He hesitates. This in itself puts me on my guard. I await with nostalgic patience the words that I know I can rail against this time, the insinuations, the prospects that my brother would turn traitor on us. That he would subject himself to our enemies in an effort to settle some score. I wait, and I am denied my battle.

"King Edmund was tortured."

What-?

"No," I say. Because this is wrong. And he is mistaken: "No."

But Lummus only looks at me, pityingly.

But there was no injury, I think. Wouldn't they have injured him? Wouldn't he have cried? _I'm fine_ Edmund had said. He had _said_. He hadn't even cried.

"He wasn't. I would have _known_," I snap. "He's my brother, Lummus. He's fine. I would have _known!"_

_Yes, I remember._

My mouth fumbles, words dying in my throat.

Snow falls thickly around us. Edmund had said, _Snow. Yes, I remember_. And before, long before, while we had rested by the Cauldron Pool and he had told me a vague note about _Her _and the ways of Her camp. This is a building pattern that I quickly turn my mind away from. That I cannot bear to finish.

Because I know now, don't I? Hadn't I been waiting to argue just that?

_Edmund would never betray me. _Torture wouldn't have changed anything. If he was freed, it wasn't because he gave me up- it was because he had to fight, alone and terribly weak, to escape.

_Aslan_. Distantly I feel the cold wind blasting through me and the ache of my arm, but they are both dreadfully dulled, and my head feels unreasonably light, swimming in horror and fear and wonder. _Would my brother really-?_

It takes me a moment to realize that Lummus is still speaking.

I feel my lips move numbly, my voice faint.

"Sorry?"

Someone is holding me by the elbow. I blink hard and realize that this, too, is the Faun.

"I said you should _rest_," Lummus repeats gruffly. "You're soaking. The rest of us will patrol and prepare in case anything happens."

"No, I'm fine," I insist, but the words feel hollow. I swallow them down and step away. "I'll change into something warmer and help patrol. I need to do something useful or else I'll..."

Truthfully, I don't know what I'll do, but Lummus looks as though he understands.

"We'll find the ones that did this to him, Your Majesty," Lummus swears. "For now, we'll focus on making King Edmund well again. On making _both _of you well again."

"Whose blood was it?" I ask him. My mind latches on to that detail. "It wasn't Edmund's. Whose was it?"

Lummus becomes rigid. He grips his crutches and glares at the trees.

"There must have been enchantment involved. We can all smell it, but it's impossible."

"What's impossible?" Singularity. Impulse. Fear. They drive me into motion and I force Lummus to meet my eyes, stepping in his way for the second time this morning. "_Whose blood was it?"_

_"_Majesty-"

"_Captain Lummus_." My voice is higher than I would like, but even I can sense the authority funneling out of the me. That raging feeling that had sat so heavily on my heart is barely chained. I fight it down. I force myself to appear as calming and steady as a High King should be.

_You are elected by Aslan, _I think, over and over. _You were chosen for this. Every bit of this. You are a King. You are a High King. _But somewhere deep, a small voice growls; _And Edmund is my brother._

Lummus watches this transformation, seeing only the King, and assents.

"Yours," he says. "Whether it actually came from your body or not, it was bewitched to be as like to yours as possible. All of the Animals can smell you. And they can all smell a dark magic drenched in you. There must be a very powerful creature of magic involved in your brother's capture. I have no doubt that it was this creature that was in charge of his tor-" The Captain winces, "-In charge of him."

"What else?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "For now, there is nothing else, your Majesty. We'll keep up the perimeter and send scouts tomorrow. Maybe they'll find some trail and lead us to whoever is responsible." With a final clap on my good shoulder, he turns and limps away, rallying Narnians to him.

"Thank you, Lummus," I say.

Dazedly, I realize that I actually sounded sincere. It's too bad no one could hear my impression of a King.

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

I don't return to the tent for a long time, walking 'round and 'round the camp, watching the lines and looking for creeping eyes in the distance. The Edge is all silence. It isn't until Ethelbert wades through some of the snow to find me and monologue me into going to bed that I dare face my little brother. And, by then, he's already fallen asleep. His arms are still crossed, and his legs are folded under him, but he is reclined on a mound of pillows and snoring loudly, as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

Which I suppose he shouldn't, with the number of Narnians posted outside of our tent.

My own dreams are restless; I dream of two Edmunds, one crooked and one sincere, and again of a woman who is half-hideous and half-beautiful and at one point both Edmund's call out to her _'Mother, Mother!' _and I when I finally wake up, it is to my own racing breaths. In addition, my arm is still sore and my head aches with a drumming vengeance.

Beside me, Edmund is still snoring, dead to the world. His arm is thrown over his eyes again and his mouth gapes open, dragging in terrifying gargles of air.

Apparently someone had come in during the night to check on us, because he was covered with a richly decorated blanket. It must have come from one of the other tents.

As well as I can with one working arm, I undress in silence.

I peel out of my sweaty nightshirt and gingerly rub at my arm, which is bound closely to my chest. I experiment with my fingers, wiggling them delicately despite the throbbing _zings _of pain that radiate from my shoulder. It is not as intense as the first few days I was awake. I wing a prayer of thanks to Aslan, and then I begin.

I force myself to undo the bindings and let it fall as gently to my side as I can, easing it down with my left hand. The pain is almost blinding. I pull in slow, measured breaths, only releasing them after a moment. I imagine all the air flowing into my body through my lungs and filtering into my arm, I imagine the air lifting the pain and pushing it out of my nostrils. After a few minutes, I pull in a breath and slowly tense my right arm. Exhaling, I slowly release the tension.

Inhale.

_Blood and Edmund and running, running, running, he asks me if I saw- Did I see-?_

Exhale.

_A jumping pool of water, deep green, nonsensical words drifting like refreshing mist-_

Inhale.

_Mummy! Mummy! and Burning and dying, dying, and getting hard to breathe, getting hard to-_

Exhale.

_A warmth tucked under my chin and a cool hand across my brow, a protective arm around my boiling ribs-_

Inhale.

"Use the Coal, stupid," says Edmund.

My eyes slide open.

Edmund, my little brother, watches me blearily from under his arm as I strengthen my muscles. His other hand is splayed out, the Coal burning in his palm as he offers it for me to take.

In that moment, for a moment, I feel inexplicably angry with him. I close my eyes, blocking him out and relaxing my body.

_Exhale. Inhale._

"You should be sleeping," I say curtly. "Ethelbert says there may still be toxins in your blood."

"Toxins?" Edmund mutters. I can hear him shuffling below the covers and furs. The dry rasp of his hand rubbing over the new clean of his face. For a moment, he falls quiet, and I hope that he is dozing, listening for the inevitable snores. But after a time, the shuffling renews with vigor, and his voices comes again, taller and more aware. He is sitting up, "Take the stupid Coal, you idiot!"

Something hits me in the chest. It startles me, even as I realize he has thrown the Coal at me in a fit of impatience. It tumbles into my lap and, in a moment, the majority of pain is sapped from my arm.

"I don't need it!" I return angrily. I pick it up and throw it back at him. My left hand is ungainly, it's aim is off. The Coal flies wide and lands in a mound of cushions. I immediately miss it, as the movement causes a surge of pain throughout my shoulder and deep into my chest. I hiss and clutch at my arm, bowing low.

A stupid, stupid move on my part. Hot wetness flows from my shoulder, leaving a sickening trail down my chest.

"You don't need it," Edmund mutters bitterly. His steps are uncoordinated. He stumbles up and around the tent as I gasp for breath. "You don't need. You _never _need." He trips again and sits heavily beside me, as though his legs were cut out from under him. In his hands rests the Coal, white hot. He shoves it against my shoulder, still talking to himself under his breath. "Stupid, selfless, arrogant..."

His hands grow steadily redder. I become self-conscious of my own blood, pulling sharply away, but Edmund follows, black eyes trained on the wound. It's dark in the tent, the Coal is poor light, so maybe that is why the lines and shadows of Edmund's face are so defined. Maybe it's the darkness that makes him appear half-starved and blue and black and red. Maybe it's the darkness.

Maybe it's the light.

At this distance, it's not hard to see the sharpness digging into Edmund's face. It's not only strain- it's _age_. It's something terrifying to see age there, to see change in something so familiar.

"Look at me," I say.

But he doesn't.

"I really thought she had killed you," he mutters. "The first time."

The darkness is back. It fills him. It defines him in the harsh white glare from my shoulder.

"But then she brought you around, and I knew. Somehow, this was just more of _her _kind of magic. Just more tricks on the eye. It made the next few times a little easier. _Just tell me where they are_, she said, _and I'll let your brother live."_

Edmund will never betray me. He no longer can.

"I knew it wasn't you," Edmund says to my shoulder. "So I let her kill him. Over and over and over... He would always be worried about me, he always wondered if I was safe."

_I'm fine. I'm fine..._

"She slipped me something, an old white powder called _snow_ that dulls your senses and releases brief euphoria. Before the paranoia sets in, anyway." Edmund, for the first time, smiles. "Luckily for me, blood is more slippery than magic."

And he had been drenched in it.

"You said you were being followed," I say.

Edmund pulls the Coal away from my shoulder. The light of it flares, then dims to a rusted red.

He looks at me.

"Just ghosts," he says. "The snow is full of them."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Aha! An update! Peter and Edmund are quickly becoming friends, I think, which will make writing their dynamic about a million times easier. For now, they seem to be at a sort of stage where they both admire one another, but they seem to think this has to be a secret. Methinks that dam will break sooner than later. **

**For those of you who wanted more on Edmund's captivity, there will be more on that later on. I thought this was rather enough to deal with in one chapter. Also, keep an eye on that blanket. The one Peter so easily dismissed.**

**I cannot thank you guys enough for being patient with this story and for the many readers who sent me PM's to encourage me into moving along. I love, love, love writing these stories for you and I'm always ecstatic to know they're enjoyed.**

**Like it? Hate it? Demand a refund? You can let me know via PM, review, or by deleting the internet. **

**Happy crunch time to my fellow college students!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


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